If Davespite really wanted to believe his wings safe and snug, then by all means. Dirk wasn't really going to pop that little happy soap bubble of delusion. Least not right now. Maybe soon. Dirk was feeling uncharacteristically sympathetic toward his alt Bro's sprite form. Especially, because he seemed boorishly vanilla. Who doesn't love a good sounding? Wusses. And wuss did not a Strider make.
He had pulled a mental kill switch, shutting down the observed similarities and the subsequent comparisons. Dave was not his Bro, and it was unfair to hope that the parallels went beyond the smattering of freckles across the bridge of the nose, the loose easy stance. He could easily ignore the orange pallor and poofy ruff, if he overlayed a pressed suit over the orange tee in his mind's eyes. It certainly didn't help any with the disassociation. All it wrought was a pang of dissonance and a sense of finality, both. This wasn't the same Bro that went down spitting straight into the Batterwitch's bejeweled face, but it was still Dave.
What he had to do here was maintain a level of distance between himself and Dave to ensure that no hindering emotional processes got in the way of the top priority. He shuffled sideways, so his right arm was tilted away from Dave, passing it off as a casual reposition. Just a normal shift in the middle of a conversation that held no more meaning than two dudes getting their introduction on. If Dirk was simultaneously angling his shitty tattoo away from a specific party's gaze, then that was just the cherry atop his hastily assembled sundae. The one that was desperately trying to go unspotted despite it's spot front and center on the parlor's menu. Boy, that sundae is SOL, Dirk's so glad that sundae is strictly metaphorical, but simultaneously not. He'd rather the sundae get its punkass spotted and devoured than the copy'n'paste job of Hella Jeff he's got permanently inked on his skin.Â
At length, Dave wound up hitting a topic that would make the dissonance-resemblance reacharound paradox acutely painful. Dirk tightened up his jaw and nodded, shrugging his shoulders to distract from the tension in his face. His shades were large enough, perpendicular from the natural planes of his face, to distract a lesser being from any takeaway that might slip past his pokerface. Not that it happened often. Dirk was naturally pro at bland stare offs. It was his resting face. So let Dave continue with his uncomfortably close metaphor about Hollywood glitz. There was no impending meltdown here. Dirk was cool, like the depths of the ocean. (Minimal signs of life and pressurized to the point of imminent implosion.)Â
Dave's adorable limerick helped jerk him out of his inward collapse. It took him a moment to recalibrate, grasp onto the rhyme, follow the rhythm. But when he did, his lip twitched upward. This kid. "Do the tabloids call 'em chicken legs," Dirk replied, sardonic, tilting his head inquiringly. "Because I see their perspective. One flash of thigh and everyone's blind. 'Boss ass bitch' is definitely subjective." He felt nominally more in sync after igniting a couple sicknasty flames. He could breath again, lungs decompressed.
"Sweet." He eyed Dave for a long moment, weighing the merits of his personality. Logistically, this iteration of Dave could be bereft of all the hella rad things Dirk had come to surmise from hours upon hours of browsing Dave_ebubbles. He'd have to keep on pressing for information while assembling a character judgement, without letting his personal bias taint his assement. "Aside from being bent and prepped for getting fucked over in the least pleasant context possible, I mean. Nothing beats waking up with no means of defense and no prior knowledge to your situation." Worlds different than the Game, when Dirk was weaving an intricate network of puppet strings to catch them should they fail their session. Not that it was a successful plan of action, but Dirk knew the stakes. There was always the hope, he could rework his plan, save his friends, and emerge, crowned prince of shitty reality warps. Walking in blind and brouncing off the parameters of his new situation until he triggered his own demise was not his ideal situation. "Considered yourself hired, although I'll need to see some credentials." A cardboard diploma, mayhaps? "If you could forward them to me ASAP, that'd be bitchin'. There's also the matter of your work uniform. I'm not sure how things were done at our SBURB branch but here in the wherethefuckistan, we like our ex-sprite to maintain a groomed, professional appearance with slight fetishtic undertones. I have little doubt with those newly reacquired gams you'll have no issue with the stockings, but I feel inclined to inquire. How do you feel about lace? In direct association with your undergarments?"
areudirty
janainaart
2087
jacobvanloon
snowghoul
turnnoffyourmind
