Don’t screw with me. You know what I mean. None of it adds up. And I’m not feeding your ego by describing why.
Hello, the fact that your magic relies on the void is proof enough you can’t be trusted. It was an obvious red flag, but you seemed cool. I should have honed in on it right away instead of rolling with it.
[Well, after he woke up from passing out, specifically.]
but he does come back to this a little later. he knows he's dealing with a trauma response, and he's just not that kind of asshole that'd leave well enough alone, so. time for a little honesty (well. he was already honest. but a different kind of honesty, less the irreverence.) ）
i genuinely have no idea what a nogitsune is except that i can tell it's a japanese word.
my magic is something that was given to me a long time ago. it's dark, corrupt, and awful. it tastes like ash and ice when i use it.
[By the time Cy sends the next message, Stiles is wandering through the neglected bowels of the resort. The spades suit branded on his neck gleams like freshly painted ink, a stark contrast of dark black against pale skin. But he pushes back wearily on the twisted sentiments it sends his way, trying to pick through the possible lies and truths Cy offers.]
I shouldn't admit this but I want to trust what you're telling me.
[Stiles reminds himself that he's always had an unnatural knack for feeling out people. Nothing about Cyram ever made him feel uneasy—until the mention of the void, and then when the man's kindness felt too good to be true.]
Do you know what a void kitsune is?
[Maybe he should have framed the question this way initially.]
well, if you're in the mood to listen to me i will tell you the truth about anything you ask.
（ it's the frantic finger pointing that makes him resistant to anything but bullshit answers. he can handle sombre better any day of the week. ）
no. both words separately, sure. not together.
also for the record — i call what i have access to a void, but i don't know if that's the right word for it. i don't actually know a lot about the power beyond how to use it. it's just convenient shorthand to me because it feels like an empty space.
plus i actually do need math to use it the way i do. hella equations.
just as an FYI though if you try to stab me with a chunk of an ash tree or whatever bullshit aired on Supernatural this week you're going to ruin my best shirt that i had to steal off the sex nordstrom rack here, so you'll have that on your conscience.
Dude, don’t even joke about that right now. The day I was walking back to my room after we met, my brain would not stop trying to insist I was actually starring in the universes’ shittiest Supernatural spinoff. Except instead of a proper network like The CW, I’d wind up on MTV or something.
[Yeah, imagine that.]
Meet me at Red Cardinal. I promise to be on my best behavior.
Ugh. I know you’re capable of better-quality puns. Don’t do this to me.
Also, that’s freaking disgusting. Goodbye.
[Fortunately, he’ll need that window of time to return to the upper levels of the resort. Rubbing at tired eyes, he begins the march to questionable civilization.][Stiles is already seated at a small table toward the back, away from the bar. Though he hasn’t ordered a meal yet, there’s a mostly drained beer cradled between his hands. As Cy approaches, he’ll likely see Sasuke’s physical deterioration reflected similarly in the American teen despite attempts to conceal weight loss and petrification with a high-collar hoodie.
A yellow-papered note has been set on the table. It’s the same one Cy left for Stiles the day of the panic attack, edges worn and crinkled like they’ve been fiddled with relentlessly.]
It was the only table open, [mutters the boy, rolling exhaustion-bruised eyes.] Try not to manspread all over the place with your freakishly long Olympian legs. Us little people need space too.
（ cy, by contrast, is dressed like a fucking bird of paradise. an obnoxiously loud paisely style shirt, collared, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. sand coloured slacks round the outfit off, and he makes it look effortless mostly because there is an almost uncanny sense that he occupies his own body to its fullest extent, like he is aware of himself and careless about it in a way that humans don't usually achieve in a lifetime.
he sits with ease, and those long spidery limbs stay neatly folded so he's not taking up unnecessary space, on request. likewise, a bag gets set down on the table between them.
the hoodie gets a look, but for now he's not going to speak to it. ）
You're not little, I was just stretched on a rack. （ haha, well... ） So, did your laundry like a fifties housewife. I'm hoping you've seen somebody about whatever injury it was you had going on?
[His jaw works in a small, tight circle as he studies the shirt, except the unconscious motion is born from a kind of incredulous envy—and, though Stiles hurries to dismiss it, a flare of attraction warm in his gut. Tearing his eyes away, he stares down at his beer as if the mysteries of the world floated in the soggy foam, giving his dining companion time to settle down. When the bag is set on the table, a questioning eyebrow cocks, but Cyram heads off the interrogation.]
Oh.
[A range of expressions wars for dominance across a white face; Stiles is at once both floored and suspicious of the unnecessary kindness shown to him. This is something he would have done in Cy’s place—not something that has ever been done for him. There’s no proper standard for the teen to measure Cy against, which leaves him constantly reeling in emotional distress as he struggles to understand the man’s end game. But Stiles made a choice earlier to hear Cyram out, to withhold his premature verdict against his better judgement. Exhaling sharply to release the tension building up within him, he moves the bag of clothes to his feet, out of the way.]
…Thanks. I’ll take a raincheck on the question. It’s complicated.
[And Stiles is not ready to discuss it.]
So, let’s cut to the chase. [Yeah, he’s not even giving Cy the courtesy of ordering a drink first.] Are you like, old old? As in, old enough to sell a really convincing act effortlessly? I mean, just how legit is…
[A pause. Frowning, Stiles gestures with the beer—at all of Cy.]
（ it's okay, he can order his own beer, with blackjack and hookers.
he does in fact flag down a server in lieu of a response. this is interrogation edging at its finest, as he asks for some hoity toity house beer it's assumed immediately he doesn't have the money to pay for, until he gives the server a faint roll of the eyes and tells them to check his credit.
math: it makes poker easy.
but it does get them to scuttle off in search of that beer, which lets cy settle his attention back on stiles. the dodge of the question is accepted — he won't push — and now he does sort of twist himself off to one side in his chair, legs extended and crossed at the ankle. ）
Well golly, that's complicated too.
（ he Sees You, you little shit. but it's not enough to make him stop. he said he'd answer, and he will. the server comes back with his beer, and a second for stiles set down on his end of the table, and then they whisk away again. ）
But yeah. I don't actually know how old I am — that profile wasn't me, so I guess the number's as good a guess as anything else. I'm probably not any younger than that.
[The edging is torture—especially for someone who suffers from impatience like Stiles. While Cy flaps his gums at the server, the teen takes a private moment without attention bearing down on him to press fingers hard into a temple. This is the longest period he’s gone without medication since he was first diagnosed with ADHD; on top of whatever the fuck is going on with him recently, it’s made it increasingly impossible to focus. The journal he’s been trying to keep about observations on this dimension is full of incomplete thoughts, ideas that wander off into nothing without meaning. It’s infuriating.
As new beers clunk down on the table, he forces himself to return to the moment. Looking at Cy—is unpleasant, but not in a way that Stiles can articulate. The best he can compare it to is staring down a complex piece of artwork in a museum, unable to discern the artist’s intentions behind masterful brushstrokes, the rich colors, the provocative shapes. He doesn’t enjoy feeling this confused.]
Right. [Uttered in the same tone as a “Jesus Christ.” Stiles knocks back a significant portion of his beer.] Fine. But were—have you been conscious that whole time? Or is this like… First Avenger frozen on ice for decades?
（ he takes a drink of his beer, easy and practiced, sucking his teeth against the taste of it. when he sets the beer back down it's slightly to the side of the ring of condensation already on the table. ）
Steve Rogers I am not. I wasn't actually lying before. I'm a god — little g — over the dominion of war.
[Brown eyes appraise Cy with the flat exhaustion of someone who is fucking done with the world.]
“Little g,” [he repeats blandly.] Alright. Table that for a minute.
[The dominion of war. Wordlessly, he glances down at the note; the boy has not forgotten the poem.]
I need you to back up to the age thing again. [And Stiles is watching the other man with a sharp, piercing intensity now—desperate to find a tell.] Verify for me. You’ve been alive, without pause, for over ten-thousand years.
（ it's said carelessly, with a lift of his glass in charming salute. ）
Not on Earth for most of it, so don't go asking me to verify how Julius Caesar liked his tea or anything weird like that. I was on Earth early in the 1900s, and then I fucked off for a bit, and came back in like the seventies. Just in time for disco.
（ and to meet a veteran of that awful conflict in vietnam in a fucking gutter, but hey. he doesn't owe this kid any mention of james, who he loved, who he buried. ）
（ the desperation in the boy's tone makes his brain itch in a way he doesn't like, too much like the begging he's already witnessed once. ）
Oh, I experienced it. But my memory's shot, so it's not all up here. （ he taps a finger against his temple, meaning — well, exactly what he means. ） I guess you could argue that means it doesn't get counted as bankable liveable time if I don't remember every minute.
（ he doesn't really care one way or another. it's just time. it's stretched out behind him in a long path, and it's longer ahead. it's taken him a long, long while not to despair about it, that boundless horizon of days, and days, and days. ）
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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i'm an engineer
i literally design bridges for a living
it's the most boring thing in the world
but im also into BDSM as a dom which is like, slightly less boring
are u just picking up on the hot+horny vibes or smth and being like TEAM ROCKET BLASTING OFF AGAIN in my general direction or smth
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Stuff like this doesn’t happen. People aren’t like you. Not without a cost. So tell me what the price is.
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rewind here
cost of what
picking u up off the floor after u tried to send ur esophagus to god? not leaving u there like an asshole? buying u a goddamn bottle of water??
what exactly is twigging ur Stranger Danger Vibes here let's unpack
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Hello, the fact that your magic relies on the void is proof enough you can’t be trusted. It was an obvious red flag, but you seemed cool. I should have honed in on it right away instead of rolling with it.
[Well, after he woke up from passing out, specifically.]
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well, you've made it pretty clear you're not going to trust anything i say until i say whatever specific bullshit ur looking for.
so, help a guy out. what's the script here?
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Tell me what you know about the Nogitsune.
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but he does come back to this a little later. he knows he's dealing with a trauma response, and he's just not that kind of asshole that'd leave well enough alone, so. time for a little honesty (well. he was already honest. but a different kind of honesty, less the irreverence.) ）
i genuinely have no idea what a nogitsune is except that i can tell it's a japanese word.
my magic is something that was given to me a long time ago. it's dark, corrupt, and awful. it tastes like ash and ice when i use it.
no subject
I shouldn't admit this
but I want to trust what you're telling me.
[Stiles reminds himself that he's always had an unnatural knack for feeling out people. Nothing about Cyram ever made him feel uneasy—until the mention of the void, and then when the man's kindness felt too good to be true.]
Do you know what a void kitsune is?
[Maybe he should have framed the question this way initially.]
no subject
（ it's the frantic finger pointing that makes him resistant to anything but bullshit answers. he can handle sombre better any day of the week. ）
no. both words separately, sure. not together.
also for the record — i call what i have access to a void, but i don't know if that's the right word for it. i don't actually know a lot about the power beyond how to use it. it's just convenient shorthand to me because it feels like an empty space.
plus i actually do need math to use it the way i do. hella equations.
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You hungry? My treat.
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just as an FYI though if you try to stab me with a chunk of an ash tree or whatever bullshit aired on Supernatural this week you're going to ruin my best shirt that i had to steal off the sex nordstrom rack here, so you'll have that on your conscience.
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[Yeah, imagine that.]
Meet me at Red Cardinal. I promise to be on my best behavior.
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get it?
haha i'm hilarious.
but okay, RC it is. gimme like half an hr i need to shower which i coincidentally think i've forgotten to do for the past few days
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Also, that’s freaking disgusting. Goodbye.
[Fortunately, he’ll need that window of time to return to the upper levels of the resort. Rubbing at tired eyes, he begins the march to questionable civilization.]
[Stiles is already seated at a small table toward the back, away from the bar. Though he hasn’t ordered a meal yet, there’s a mostly drained beer cradled between his hands. As Cy approaches, he’ll likely see Sasuke’s physical deterioration reflected similarly in the American teen despite attempts to conceal weight loss and petrification with a high-collar hoodie.
A yellow-papered note has been set on the table. It’s the same one Cy left for Stiles the day of the panic attack, edges worn and crinkled like they’ve been fiddled with relentlessly.]
It was the only table open, [mutters the boy, rolling exhaustion-bruised eyes.] Try not to manspread all over the place with your freakishly long Olympian legs. Us little people need space too.
no subject
he sits with ease, and those long spidery limbs stay neatly folded so he's not taking up unnecessary space, on request. likewise, a bag gets set down on the table between them.
the hoodie gets a look, but for now he's not going to speak to it. ）
You're not little, I was just stretched on a rack. （ haha, well... ） So, did your laundry like a fifties housewife. I'm hoping you've seen somebody about whatever injury it was you had going on?
no subject
Oh.
[A range of expressions wars for dominance across a white face; Stiles is at once both floored and suspicious of the unnecessary kindness shown to him. This is something he would have done in Cy’s place—not something that has ever been done for him. There’s no proper standard for the teen to measure Cy against, which leaves him constantly reeling in emotional distress as he struggles to understand the man’s end game. But Stiles made a choice earlier to hear Cyram out, to withhold his premature verdict against his better judgement. Exhaling sharply to release the tension building up within him, he moves the bag of clothes to his feet, out of the way.]
…Thanks. I’ll take a raincheck on the question. It’s complicated.
[And Stiles is not ready to discuss it.]
So, let’s cut to the chase. [Yeah, he’s not even giving Cy the courtesy of ordering a drink first.] Are you like, old old? As in, old enough to sell a really convincing act effortlessly? I mean, just how legit is…
[A pause. Frowning, Stiles gestures with the beer—at all of Cy.]
…this?
no subject
he does in fact flag down a server in lieu of a response. this is interrogation edging at its finest, as he asks for some hoity toity house beer it's assumed immediately he doesn't have the money to pay for, until he gives the server a faint roll of the eyes and tells them to check his credit.
math: it makes poker easy.
but it does get them to scuttle off in search of that beer, which lets cy settle his attention back on stiles. the dodge of the question is accepted — he won't push — and now he does sort of twist himself off to one side in his chair, legs extended and crossed at the ankle. ）
Well golly, that's complicated too.
（ he Sees You, you little shit. but it's not enough to make him stop. he said he'd answer, and he will. the server comes back with his beer, and a second for stiles set down on his end of the table, and then they whisk away again. ）
But yeah. I don't actually know how old I am — that profile wasn't me, so I guess the number's as good a guess as anything else. I'm probably not any younger than that.
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As new beers clunk down on the table, he forces himself to return to the moment. Looking at Cy—is unpleasant, but not in a way that Stiles can articulate. The best he can compare it to is staring down a complex piece of artwork in a museum, unable to discern the artist’s intentions behind masterful brushstrokes, the rich colors, the provocative shapes. He doesn’t enjoy feeling this confused.]
Right. [Uttered in the same tone as a “Jesus Christ.” Stiles knocks back a significant portion of his beer.] Fine. But were—have you been conscious that whole time? Or is this like… First Avenger frozen on ice for decades?
[It must be the latter scenario.]
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（ he takes a drink of his beer, easy and practiced, sucking his teeth against the taste of it. when he sets the beer back down it's slightly to the side of the ring of condensation already on the table. ）
Steve Rogers I am not. I wasn't actually lying before. I'm a god — little g — over the dominion of war.
no subject
“Little g,” [he repeats blandly.] Alright. Table that for a minute.
[The dominion of war. Wordlessly, he glances down at the note; the boy has not forgotten the poem.]
I need you to back up to the age thing again. [And Stiles is watching the other man with a sharp, piercing intensity now—desperate to find a tell.] Verify for me. You’ve been alive, without pause, for over ten-thousand years.
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（ it's said carelessly, with a lift of his glass in charming salute. ）
Not on Earth for most of it, so don't go asking me to verify how Julius Caesar liked his tea or anything weird like that. I was on Earth early in the 1900s, and then I fucked off for a bit, and came back in like the seventies. Just in time for disco.
（ and to meet a veteran of that awful conflict in vietnam in a fucking gutter, but hey. he doesn't owe this kid any mention of james, who he loved, who he buried. ）
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Okay, so you—the “not on Earth” thing—time passed differently there or something, right?
[The beer is forgotten. Leaning forward to the point of nearly stumbling out of his seat, he stares wildly at Cy.]
Maybe ten thousand years passed on Earth, but you didn’t experience that length of time properly.
[For the love of god, please.]
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Oh, I experienced it. But my memory's shot, so it's not all up here. （ he taps a finger against his temple, meaning — well, exactly what he means. ） I guess you could argue that means it doesn't get counted as bankable liveable time if I don't remember every minute.
（ he doesn't really care one way or another. it's just time. it's stretched out behind him in a long path, and it's longer ahead. it's taken him a long, long while not to despair about it, that boundless horizon of days, and days, and days. ）
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cw: ... animal abuse... metaphor...?
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cw: brief mention of disordered eating BUT IT'S REALLY INFECTION SYMPTOMS
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