īŧ her newfound durability is... you know what? pretty fucking rad.
he'd been hesitant at first, not really willing to expend more than the usual amount of force or risk injuring her in any lingering, lasting way. it hadn't really taken him long to trust her at her word that she was more than capable, more than willing to submit under punishment. they've both put too many miles, too much faith into their relationship for him to doubt her now.
it's why their sessions together have gotten a little deeper. a little darker. a lot bloodier.
right now, he's got her arranged across his thighs. she's naked, he's not. hell, he's wearing nice jeans and a button down shirt, just to really drive the dichotomy home, and his tie is the thing securing her hands behind her back. he runs his hand down one bare, perfect thigh, fingers kneading into the skin with a strength that would press bruises there were she not now possessed of superhuman healing.
(he wouldn't wish immortality on his worst enemy. but at least hers can end in her own way, on her own terms.)
he slaps her ass with the flat of his hand, grinning just a bit. the other hand is cradling a cigarette, and he flicks ash off the end across her shoulders before leaning down to offer her a drag for which she needs only turn her head. īŧ
īŧ waking up only fuck knows where is a pretty common occurrence for him, all things considered. he's somewhere cold and uncomfortable, and when he cracks an eye and looks towards the ceiling the distinct lack of fluffy clouds and harps tells him in no uncertain terms it's not the afterlife.
(jokes aside, even if he believed in the quaint, short-lived notion of a christian heaven, he wouldn't be going there.
truth is, he just can't fucking die, period.)
he doesn't bother moving or getting up. just lets his attention track around the cell he's in. square. boring. windowless.
no mattress. inconsiderate.
(also boring.)
eventually, some schmuck doctor shows up to ask him questions about how did you survive the vacuum of space? and doesn't like his very pointed answer of superpowers. more time passes, meals come at regular intervals. he can't transmat, which is — fucking weird, but if he had to hazard a guess, the ship possesses some sort of dampening field.
he's considering something dramatic, like maybe ripping an arm off and beating it against the door out of pure unadulterated spite. being trapped in a box? not his favourite method of torture. literally give him anything else. bamboo under the fingernails? child's play. that sx'geshan acid trick? bring it on. burning, beating, etc — the pinnacle of a lack of imagination. boxes are just. it's so much like —
(every once in a while panic sort of creeps up the back of his neck, and he shoves it back down. it's fine. he's fine.)
by the time the actual captain of the ship comes to visit him, cy is half on the sleeping bench and half off of it in an artless sprawl that involves his knees being hooked over its lip and his torso sprawled across the floor. he looks at the man (upside down, effectively) and says: īŧ
Two options. Cigarettes or sex. If you aren't here to dump either of those two things in my lap, you can kindly scamper back whence you came. Also? Your hair's dumb.
[He walked into the room with the air of a man who was deeply irritated and that crack did not lessen that. His look is as much withering as it is amused.
Shit he doesn't want to deal with, and complications he does not fucking need: This asshole and all the questions he raises. Like what he he is, why he's alive and where he came from.
He's got them all though.]
So is your face and probably your cock. [He's mature] What the frell is a cigarette?
īŧ excuse him. cy twists like an uncanny, agile cat until he's halfly propped up on one side (that resounding crack? just his lower spine protesting, don't worry about it) and staring the man down. his expression is briefly inscrutable, and then it transmutes itself into a playful leer. īŧ
Really, you're gonna bust in here and make those comments about my dick? īŧ in front of my SALAD? īŧ Without having even cast thine eyes upon its glorious tumescence? Okay, first of all, rude. Second of all, cowardly.
īŧ no, he will not apologize. īŧ
And cigarettes are basically the only thing better than sex and I'm in full on psychological withdrawal. The Geneva Convention called, and they really want their torture methods back.
[The look on his face is absolutely, totally, resoundingly blank for entirely too long. It's not the blank of stonewalling, but rather a very 'what the fuck' sort of expression. Then he reaches up his sleeve and pulls something out that looks like a flat cigarette.
Flicks it to Cy without moving any closer to him.]
Bite down on that.
[It will dissolve into heavily mentholated vapor if Cy does. Not quite a cigarette but the closest he has.]
then we will discuss why all of you, including your dick, is dumb and what we're going to do about it.
īŧ the fuck you say. he eyes that. weird. stick thing?
figures it's probably some weird, psychological bullshit truth serum nonsense (or something adjacent to) and just. flicks it back. they are both grown men, and this is how they show it.
notably, still has not gotten up off the floor.
also notably, has now flopped himself back down so his shoulders are flat against it again. īŧ
We ain't discussin' shit my good man. I'm good. Just drop me off at the nearest... fuck if I know the chain restaurants all the way out here. Y'all got Starbucks? And I'll give you five stars on Yelp for the service you sure as shit haven't earned.
[He catches it, bites down and exhales... smoke. Sits down and leans back, back against the door, one knee up.
Looks casual but he's fairly pissed off and the way he's moving reflects that]
There is nothing I would like more than to get you off this ship and out of my hair, but unless you stop talking nonsense the only way you're going to leave is dead.
Ooh, you wanna toss me a pinkie promise on that one, old man?
īŧ it's said with a truly, unerringly obnoxious bat of his eyelashes. mr. serious facial hair over here can do whatever he wants, really, there's not actually much cy's all that worried about. death, his fondest mistress who won't fuck him. truly, a tragedy. īŧ
He thinks about screaming, and would except he'd have someone breathing down both their necks entirely too fast and then he would suffer more than this asshole.]
What is wrong with you. Do you want to leave or not?
I mean, yeah sure. But I guarantee you can't kill me, which means the only thing you can do is annoy me until I wish I'm dead.
īŧ he yawns again. and then, at long last, he heaves himself upright with the airs of someone who is resigned to lifting an entire goddamn mountain, groaning the entire while. then he slowly scoots himself around until they're facing one-another.
one arm is casually draped across the sleeping bench, and cy jerks his chin at the man in a little 'what's up?' gesture of absolute cultural fuckboyism. īŧ
Wanna give it a try? īŧ guy's a soldier, so he's gotta have a weapon on him somewhere. īŧ Shoot me in the head.
[Crais is perpetually confused about two thirds of what is coming out of this man's mouth, but he is not actually stupid. Vacuum of space didn't do it, an energy bolt certainly isn't going to.
Crais fixes Cy with a hard, flat, stare, stands up and opens the door to that cell. He lifts and levels his weapon - but not at Cyram. At someone guarding the block of cells. Doesn't hesitate, just shoots. The back of the guy's head blows out and he collapses.]
cy is ready to get shot. ready to feel that bite and sting and the inevitable knitting of flesh and bone and brain matter back together. pain's pain — he doesn't love it, but he's good at standing it just the same. so when the (metaphorical) hammer falls, and it's not on him, he's.
momentarily dumbfounded. wow, okay. world's weirdest rescue by the strangest psychopath he's ever seen. īŧ
Uh. īŧ eloquence, thy name is cy. but he's gotten to his feet at least, all spidery limbs and soaring height and bemusement written into every line of his expression. īŧ Okay. What's that all about?
cy gives him a long look, and the carefree 'fuck you' nature of his attitude sort of splits along the faultlines, leaving the serious nature beneath exposed the way ribs can be drawn aside from a heart.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vanessa;
Date: 2023-05-22 08:49 pm (UTC)he'd been hesitant at first, not really willing to expend more than the usual amount of force or risk injuring her in any lingering, lasting way. it hadn't really taken him long to trust her at her word that she was more than capable, more than willing to submit under punishment. they've both put too many miles, too much faith into their relationship for him to doubt her now.
it's why their sessions together have gotten a little deeper. a little darker. a lot bloodier.
right now, he's got her arranged across his thighs. she's naked, he's not. hell, he's wearing nice jeans and a button down shirt, just to really drive the dichotomy home, and his tie is the thing securing her hands behind her back. he runs his hand down one bare, perfect thigh, fingers kneading into the skin with a strength that would press bruises there were she not now possessed of superhuman healing.
(he wouldn't wish immortality on his worst enemy. but at least hers can end in her own way, on her own terms.)
he slaps her ass with the flat of his hand, grinning just a bit. the other hand is cradling a cigarette, and he flicks ash off the end across her shoulders before leaning down to offer her a drag for which she needs only turn her head. īŧ
How hard we talkin', doll?
crais; (au shenaniganry, CW for suicidal ideation + joking abt x-tian religion)
Date: 2023-05-22 09:47 pm (UTC)(jokes aside, even if he believed in the quaint, short-lived notion of a christian heaven, he wouldn't be going there.
truth is, he just can't fucking die, period.)
he doesn't bother moving or getting up. just lets his attention track around the cell he's in. square. boring. windowless.
no mattress. inconsiderate.
(also boring.)
eventually, some schmuck doctor shows up to ask him questions about how did you survive the vacuum of space? and doesn't like his very pointed answer of superpowers. more time passes, meals come at regular intervals. he can't transmat, which is — fucking weird, but if he had to hazard a guess, the ship possesses some sort of dampening field.
he's considering something dramatic, like maybe ripping an arm off and beating it against the door out of pure unadulterated spite. being trapped in a box? not his favourite method of torture. literally give him anything else. bamboo under the fingernails? child's play. that sx'geshan acid trick? bring it on. burning, beating, etc — the pinnacle of a lack of imagination. boxes are just. it's so much like —
(every once in a while panic sort of creeps up the back of his neck, and he shoves it back down. it's fine. he's fine.)
by the time the actual captain of the ship comes to visit him, cy is half on the sleeping bench and half off of it in an artless sprawl that involves his knees being hooked over its lip and his torso sprawled across the floor. he looks at the man (upside down, effectively) and says: īŧ
Two options. Cigarettes or sex. If you aren't here to dump either of those two things in my lap, you can kindly scamper back whence you came. Also? Your hair's dumb.
īŧ he's so good at interrogation, rly. īŧ
no subject
Date: 2023-05-22 10:03 pm (UTC)Shit he doesn't want to deal with, and complications he does not fucking need: This asshole and all the questions he raises. Like what he he is, why he's alive and where he came from.
He's got them all though.]
So is your face and probably your cock. [He's mature] What the frell is a cigarette?
no subject
Date: 2023-05-22 10:20 pm (UTC)Really, you're gonna bust in here and make those comments about my dick? īŧ in front of my SALAD? īŧ Without having even cast thine eyes upon its glorious tumescence? Okay, first of all, rude. Second of all, cowardly.
īŧ no, he will not apologize. īŧ
And cigarettes are basically the only thing better than sex and I'm in full on psychological withdrawal. The Geneva Convention called, and they really want their torture methods back.
no subject
Date: 2023-05-22 10:29 pm (UTC)Flicks it to Cy without moving any closer to him.]
Bite down on that.
[It will dissolve into heavily mentholated vapor if Cy does. Not quite a cigarette but the closest he has.]
then we will discuss why all of you, including your dick, is dumb and what we're going to do about it.
no subject
Date: 2023-05-22 10:37 pm (UTC)figures it's probably some weird, psychological bullshit truth serum nonsense (or something adjacent to) and just. flicks it back. they are both grown men, and this is how they show it.
notably, still has not gotten up off the floor.
also notably, has now flopped himself back down so his shoulders are flat against it again. īŧ
We ain't discussin' shit my good man. I'm good. Just drop me off at the nearest... fuck if I know the chain restaurants all the way out here. Y'all got Starbucks? And I'll give you five stars on Yelp for the service you sure as shit haven't earned.
no subject
Date: 2023-05-22 10:47 pm (UTC)Looks casual but he's fairly pissed off and the way he's moving reflects that]
There is nothing I would like more than to get you off this ship and out of my hair, but unless you stop talking nonsense the only way you're going to leave is dead.
no subject
Date: 2023-05-22 10:49 pm (UTC)īŧ it's said with a truly, unerringly obnoxious bat of his eyelashes. mr. serious facial hair over here can do whatever he wants, really, there's not actually much cy's all that worried about. death, his fondest mistress who won't fuck him. truly, a tragedy. īŧ
no subject
Date: 2023-05-22 10:51 pm (UTC)Just.
What. The. Fuck.
He thinks about screaming, and would except he'd have someone breathing down both their necks entirely too fast and then he would suffer more than this asshole.]
What is wrong with you. Do you want to leave or not?
no subject
Date: 2023-05-22 11:06 pm (UTC)īŧ he yawns again. and then, at long last, he heaves himself upright with the airs of someone who is resigned to lifting an entire goddamn mountain, groaning the entire while. then he slowly scoots himself around until they're facing one-another.
one arm is casually draped across the sleeping bench, and cy jerks his chin at the man in a little 'what's up?' gesture of absolute cultural fuckboyism. īŧ
Wanna give it a try? īŧ guy's a soldier, so he's gotta have a weapon on him somewhere. īŧ Shoot me in the head.
no subject
Date: 2023-05-22 11:15 pm (UTC)Crais fixes Cy with a hard, flat, stare, stands up and opens the door to that cell. He lifts and levels his weapon - but not at Cyram. At someone guarding the block of cells. Doesn't hesitate, just shoots. The back of the guy's head blows out and he collapses.]
If you want out, then come on.
no subject
Date: 2023-05-23 01:25 am (UTC)cy is ready to get shot. ready to feel that bite and sting and the inevitable knitting of flesh and bone and brain matter back together. pain's pain — he doesn't love it, but he's good at standing it just the same. so when the (metaphorical) hammer falls, and it's not on him, he's.
momentarily dumbfounded. wow, okay. world's weirdest rescue by the strangest psychopath he's ever seen. īŧ
Uh. īŧ eloquence, thy name is cy. but he's gotten to his feet at least, all spidery limbs and soaring height and bemusement written into every line of his expression. īŧ Okay. What's that all about?
no subject
Date: 2023-05-23 01:31 am (UTC)[Yet. He's tense, this is urgent and he's just... going to...
He can't just shove this one into a ship and send him off like he had Aeryn's previous boyfriend.
Dammit.]
We're leaving. On that ship.
[That ship being Talyn, whom he is stealing - again. Sure. Why not. He's already dead.]
no subject
Date: 2023-05-23 08:11 pm (UTC)you know what? it's better than a box.
cy gives him a long look, and the carefree 'fuck you' nature of his attitude sort of splits along the faultlines, leaving the serious nature beneath exposed the way ribs can be drawn aside from a heart.
then he shrugs. īŧ
Well, all right. You got snacks, my man?