DOUBLE DOG DARE YA!

[dogdare]

#DOGDARE. micro / test thread multi muse. written by jordy (they/it/he), '95, other accounts here. this is a side blog. i follow from @eyeshone.

RULES + ROSTER ⤵️

RULES.

this is an account for me to write: 1.) primarily, casual micro threads (approx 1-3 sentence max) 2.) badly / not my best 3.) texting threads 4.) silly aus (e.g. school teacher au) 5.) test muses. i ask that your replies to this account match my short length restriction—or else. let’s boogie.

ROSTER.

any muses i write across all of my accounts. including but not limited to:

DECORUM cast @keyhop

frederick chilton @hypocratic

mr. johnson @alulars

lee melanthom @soothfog

the luteces @timeloooop

mim @mimicic

willy wonka @goldticket

anyone from my multi @eyeshone

+ requests (seriously!)

[dogdare]

@bruisedpenny for pidge.

Gal statues. “Pidge.” She grabs Pidge’s hand and yanks:

“Look. That’s him.”

[eviji]

@dogdare @vitalphenomena

"I'm good in a tight spot. Yes, hello, Margot."

[vitalphenomena]

"You're barely in one piece. We should leave now."

@dogdare

[dogdare]

Frederick rests a bouquet of flowers at Rifat’s blanketed feet to free his hands. He grabs the patient chart hanging on the edge of the hospital bed. He casually peruses the notes as one would a restaurant menu they regularly frequent. “Your rotator cuff is torn.” He re-hooks the chart and cradles the gangly bouquet, one-armed. Demure pride, smile pressure-seal-concealed—gaze meeting Rifat’s: “Three stitches." Smugly ambiguous: "A good doctor.”

@eviji

[dogdare]

OKAAAY.

“Kinsey Nolan?!”

Admonishing herself: “Dena!”

“Sorry. That’s what my friends call you. You are a lot of people’s gay awakening.” The Kinsey Scale climb.

“I love girls.”

Oh my fuck.

“Final girls.”

[jupiterfree]

now. now dena decides to recognize her. speaking of,

"your name is dena?" just trying to get any information.

"that all is really sweet of you, yeah."

"but the thing is, I'm on a really tight deadline. and I came all this way..."

[dogdare]

Someone who looks like Kitsey Nolan walks into your town’s morgue. You don’t assume it’s actually Kitsey Nolan. You think: they look familiar, did I go to high school with them? then they look a lot like that one actress then can’t be then as you’re coming out to her—gay—she comes out to you—Kit-say—and you lean against the morgue door and it drops open like a head nodding asleep. That’s how that goes. In case Kitsey needs notes for her well deserved biopic.

Dena stutter-steps into the morgue room, preventing a fall. “Come on in, Kitsey Nolan.” Full name: the same intrusive indulgence one has when standing next to a bowl of free chocolates at a receptionist desk—you have to. Dena eyes Kitsey’s clothing. Respectfully. “You’re going to be cold in that. Civs don’t think of it, but morgues are just morbid people fridges.” She’s never said the word ‘civ’ in her life.

[dogdare]

Joey doesn’t lock his front door. He thinks the security-code glass-door lobby entrance is enough prevention. And he doesn’t want someone kicking his door down if they do reach his place; he can’t afford to lose his security deposit return in several months.

But it’d be funner to answer.

Joey opens the front door. Upper half of his body popping out from behind like a well-illusioned hand puppet.

[vitalphenomena]

DMITRI STRUGGLES WITH THE MASK AS HIS EARS GROW, THEN SHRINK, AND HIS JAWLINE SHARPENS, TIGHTENS, SAGS, AND SOFTENS IN RAPID SUCCESSION. Finally, he throws it into the backseat. That's another place to look for snacks!

No luck.

Thick envelopes of wrinkled cash have already been shoved into his bag. He stares bleakly at it now but finally grabs it with a grunt.

He puts in the code to enter Joey's building. He takes to the stairs. He stops halfway up the flight that will bring him to Joey's floor. He can see Joey's frame and his doorframe. His stomach is churning. He thuds up the final few steps.

Closer, Joey still smells like shaving cream. Dmitri shoulders his way in.

"Elsie sends me a card, sometimes," Dmitri blurts, "But it's never on the same day every year, and it always felt insulting, frankly, when I thought about it in a little more detail, and you know what she's like—"

Joey didn't ask for any of this. Dmitri shrugs off his bag and takes out an envelope.

"—but maybe we could eat somewhere?" He sounds helpless. Looks it, too.

What he should have started with is:

"Happy birthday."

[dogdare]

He’s following. He’s following. It’s leading to: he didn’t have to shave?!

Then, Joey is grinning at the envelope in Dmitri’s hand.

“What’s this?”

He yoinks it before it’s offered. He slides his thumb under the sealed flap. Slow and gentle. He wants to preserve the envelope, too. He hasn’t gotten many of these in life.

As Joey is shimmying the card out, he points it at Dmitri like a baton:

“Boss,” so stubbornly sincere (the serving size of his heart is ridiculously high—like a deep fried twinkie dipped in chocolate):

“I’ll send you a birthday card every day. All three hundred and sixty of ‘em. They’re about living. You survivin’ with Hulkin’ Super Iron Men out there is worth the birthday cake calories.”

[dogdare]

Reacted 🌶️ to “I’d like to see that”.

Joey shaves. Because to not would be some kind of chickening out.

Ten minutes later, after glancing at Dmitri’s recent message, Joey stares into his open kitchen cabinet. Instant ramen. Protein bars. Protein powder gallon-sized jug. Peanut butter jar (smooth kind). Spaghetti noodle sticks he never cooked. His kitchen rivals Nietzsche’s abyss. Joey’s own abyss—his empty stomach, now empty work day—does not gaze, it growls. As shapeless as Dmitri. It is Dmitri.

[ boss 🥇🦎 ] No

[ boss 🥇🦎 ] You hungry?

[vitalphenomena]

DMITRI OPENS THE DOORDASH APP. He grimaces. He closes out. He opens his mobile banking app. The grimace persists; his eyebrows furrow. He puts his phone on the passenger seat, then rummages around one-handed to see if he's got some leftover snacks from his latest stakeout. No such luck.

Still driving, still using one arm, he sighs as he puts on his mask. He opens Google Maps and searches for the nearest bank.

Twenty or so minutes later, he is en route to Joey's apartment.

[ sms: j 2 ] I could eat [ sms: j 2 ] You should eat

Dmitri realizes he has no idea what takeout Joey favors. He drags his fingers over the mysterious fabric of his mask while parking on the street.

[ sms: j 2 ] Unlock the door

[dogdare]

Joey doesn’t lock his front door. He thinks the security-code glass-door lobby entrance is enough prevention. And he doesn’t want someone kicking his door down if they do reach his place; he can’t afford to lose his security deposit return in several months.

But it’d be funner to answer.

Joey opens the front door. Upper half of his body popping out from behind like a well-illusioned hand puppet.

[dogdare]

Damn. What did he do wrong?

[ boss 🥇🦎 ] I can rollover to

[ boss 🥇🦎 ] *Audio message: it’s Joey barking twice like a Rottweiler.*

[vitalphenomena]

IT REALLY IS A SHAME! As Dmitri arms the outdated alarm system that protects the warehouse during the seldom few hours it is completely unoccupied, he mutters to himself about how he should have been clearer that the beard isn't the problem. It was never the problem!

[ sms: j 2 ] I'd like to see that

He listens to the audio message in the car. His face is so blank that he might as well be wearing his mask.

[ sms: j 2 ] Have you eaten

Let him clarify.

[ sms: j 2 ] Real food. Not the shakes

[dogdare]

Reacted 🌶️ to “I’d like to see that”.

Joey shaves. Because to not would be some kind of chickening out.

Ten minutes later, after glancing at Dmitri’s recent message, Joey stares into his open kitchen cabinet. Instant ramen. Protein bars. Protein powder gallon-sized jug. Peanut butter jar (smooth kind). Spaghetti noodle sticks he never cooked. His kitchen rivals Nietzsche’s abyss. Joey’s own abyss—his empty stomach, now empty work day—does not gaze, it growls. As shapeless as Dmitri. It is Dmitri.

[ boss 🥇🦎 ] No

[ boss 🥇🦎 ] You hungry?

[dogdare]

Reacted 🫡 to “I mean it”.

Three minutes later, slippery thumb slip:

[ boss 🥇🦎 ] Www

‘W’ is so close to the photo button and his hand is so slimy.

[ boss 🥇🦎 ] *Selfie picture of Joey in his bathroom, a glob of white obstructing half the lens, shaving cream overly caking his face to look like a foamy, sopping Santa Claus. Joey is smiling goofily. One hand visible and just as blobby-white and finger-gunning the camera.*

[vitalphenomena]

THAT'S A SHAME. Dmitri frowns, then hops out of his rolling chair. It rolls a few inches away from his desk.

[ sms: j 2 ] This doesn't change anything [ sms: j 2 ] I'm locking up [ sms: j 2 ] Are you staying

[dogdare]

Damn. What did he do wrong?

[ boss 🥇🦎 ] I can rollover to

[ boss 🥇🦎 ] *Audio message: it’s Joey barking twice like a Rottweiler.*

[dogdare]

‘no need for you’ stings. Defensively, humorously coping, Joey jumps to a reason within his control to change:

[ boss 🥇🦎 ] I’ll shave the beard!

Generous, calling what’s on his face that. Light blonde wispy bristles. Sticky sand patches around his jawline—denser on the left—like he fell playing volleyball at the beach.

[ boss 🥇🦎 ] I can work

[vitalphenomena]

(he likes the scruff. (The form and genetics he was born with mean he doesn't naturally grow much facial hair, either.))

[ sms: j 2 ] No [ sms: j 2 ] Stay [ sms: j 2 ] Stay [ sms: j 2 ] I mean it

[dogdare]

Reacted 🫡 to “I mean it”.

Three minutes later, slippery thumb slip:

[ boss 🥇🦎 ] Www

‘W’ is so close to the photo button and his hand is so slimy.

[ boss 🥇🦎 ] *Selfie picture of Joey in his bathroom, a glob of white obstructing half the lens, shaving cream overly caking his face to look like a foamy, sopping Santa Claus. Joey is smiling goofily. One hand visible and just as blobby-white finger-gunning the camera.

[vitalphenomena]

@dogdare // joey

[ sms: j 2 ] stay home [ sms: j 2 ] there is no need for you [ sms: j 2 ] and I will be leaving soon

[dogdare]

‘no need for you’ stings. Defensively, humorously coping, Joey jumps to a reason within his superficial control to change:

[ boss 🥇🦎 ] I’ll shave the beard!

Generous, calling what’s on his face that. Light blonde wispy bristles. Sticky sand patches around his jawline—denser on the left—like he fell playing volleyball at the beach.

[ boss 🥇🦎 ] I can work

[dogdare]

How ‘encroaching’ is it if Frederick allows it, enjoys it, rises to it in more ways than one?

“You avoid the word ‘please’ with me like it is the name of an ex-lover.” Mentally handsy. Sensual. Like a finger tingle-tickling the reeded curve of her spine. Teasing, riling, chin tilting up: “I would like to hear you say it.”

[vitalphenomena]

PLEASE DOESN'T HAVE THE SAME RING TO IT AS BEATRICE, DOES IT?

With played-up skepticism: "I'm not sure you know what you're complaining about." Because if he did, he wouldn't be making a point of this at all, right? He loves this.

"I would really appreciate if I had control of the iPad, Doctor Chilton."

[dogdare]

She didn’t say ‘please’. Frederick’s eyes roll and loiter under the severe awning of his brow line as he considers how strict to act. Then, his stare—sharp—drops to Margot like two skewered green olives plopped in a dirty martini. He smiles—slim. He hands her the ipad with a flourished flick of his wrist.

[dogdare]

Yes, a standard deviation collects where her gaze grazes him—quantifiable, quintessential bell curve: mouth-heavy inhale.

Her repartee is as evocative as her chess. Frederick is no grandmaster, but he is a prolific grandstander.

“A demonstration on what strokes you know could prove beneficial.”

[vitalphenomena]

"If you insist. Give me that, then."

She's impatient. She reaches for the iPad, leaning into him—his space fully encroached upon.

[dogdare]

How ‘encroaching’ is it if Frederick allows it, enjoys it, rises to it in more ways than one?

“You avoid the word ‘please’ with me like it is the name of an ex-lover.” Mentally handsy. Sensual. Like a finger tingle-tickling the reeded curve of her spine. Teasing, riling, chin tilting up: “I would like to hear you say it.”

[dogdare]

“Psychology is interpretive. Closer to naming synchronized swimming routines than” his head cants like a near-empty merlot bottle, mind deliriously wine-dark, pouring out what little he can: “the marine biology lurking below.”

[vitalphenomena]

HER GAZE, LAZY AND UNHURRIED, DROPS TO WHAT LURKS BELOW THE WAISTBAND OF HIS PAJAMA PANTS. Then, to the now-unremarkable iPad. Finally, up to Frederick's face—far from unremarkable.

"If you're struggling to identify schools of fish and plankton—or—oh, I'm sorry—backstrokes and butterflies—you only need to say that. I'm sure I could step in wherever necessary."

[dogdare]

Yes, a standard deviation collects where her gaze grazes him—quantifiable, quintessential bell curve: mouth-heavy inhale.

Her repartee is as evocative as her chess. Frederick is no grandmaster, but he is a prolific grandstander.

“A demonstration on what strokes you know could prove beneficial.”

[dogdare]

Frederick is eerily motionless. Mentally stalled and enthralled. A short, delayed pause—as long as it takes a boiler to hum hot after twisting a mercury thermostat up. Heat is rising. Silent, he nods. Equally agreeing and urging her to go on.

[vitalphenomena]

HIS LACK OF A REACTION IS DISAPPOINTING. Not only because she, on some level, craves attention—but also because of what it indicates about him.

She'll have to accept his nod for everything it's possibly worth. She grows smug. His arousal, she would argue, is contagious.

"How much of your management relies on implication?" she wonders, tone indicating she thinks she knows the answer. "I wouldn't leave anything up to interpretation."

[dogdare]

“Psychology is interpretive. Closer to naming synchronized swimming routines than” his head cants like a near-empty merlot bottle, mind deliriously wine-dark, pouring out what little he can: “the marine biology lurking below.”

[dogdare]

“Mmm.” Schrödinger's cat(tiness): a hmm or a moan?

“I am typically accused of hailing from the lower divine provenance.” Frederick smirks. “What would you be?”

[vitalphenomena]

SEE, THIS ISN'T THE FIRST TIME HE'S LEFT IT UP TO HER INTERPRETATION HOW AROUSED, FRUSTRATED, AND/OR HELPLESS HE IS. In fact, she suspects he's doing it all on purpose.

"I'm sure that you are," is all she says at first, curt as one can be when they're also completely in love.

Then: "I'm not particularly angelic, am I?" Or is she fishing? "And in a professional capacity, well—I'd do my worst."

[dogdare]

Frederick is eerily motionless. Mentally stalled and enthralled. A short, delayed pause—as long as it takes a boiler to hotly hum alive after twisting a mercury thermostat up. Heat is rising. Silent, he nods. Equally agreeing and urging her to go on.

[dogdare]

“Uh, no.” The ipad screen blinks blank-black. Frederick’s attention is fully alight to this tantalizing hypothetical.

“Why don’t you tell me more about your sensible regime change.” Tone dropping like unbelted suit trousers: “How would you do it?”

[vitalphenomena]

SHE LIKES THIS. She likes this a lot, actually. There's something undeniably arousing about the concept of a regime change.

She tilts her head up, haughty. No spreading of legs, no parting of lips.

"Well, I wouldn't treat myself as their higher power, first of all." A reference to his consistent observation. Their makes her feel distant from the inhabitants of Dr. Chilton's hospital, even if she's only narrowly evaded their fate. "It's very Orwellian. Your patients could easily draw all sorts of assumptions."

[dogdare]

“Mmm.” Schrödinger's cat(tiness): a hmm or a moan?

“I am typically accused of hailing from the lower divine provenance.” Frederick smirks. “What would you be?”

[dogdare]

@rekant for eva stratt.

“I teach superheroes.”

[rekant]

"i imagine they're harder to train than other people."

[dogdare]

Historically, Stephaine doesn’t divulge clientele or confidential anecdotes, but Stratt feels kindred. A momentary gossip slip she will undoubtedly regret later:

“The Hulk” not to be confused with Bruce Banner “thought CPR stood for ‘civilian public relations’. I asked him what he knows and he posed for a selfie.”