driftfleet | (no subject)

Who: Cyril and OPEN. The idea here is that Cyril has slipped into isolated himself and people who have close CR, are part of his ship, or just happen to stumble across him can intervene. If you want a personalized starter, let me know!
Broadcast: N/A
Action: Wonderduck to... whatever the name of the fusion ship is going to be. Wonderstruck? Starduck? Who knows!
When: Throughout the first half of this month, basically.

[ooc; this is in prose, but feel free to reply in action brackets if you like that better.]

It starts small. First, he ends the conversation with Dorian and feels so drained after that he thinks a nap might be in order. Then it turns into sleeping most of the day, and the day after that too. When he finally does wake, he doesn't really see the point in getting out of his room, at least until the thought occurs to him that he can get up to get some more wine.

'Some more wine' turns into a lot of wine, which turns into alcohol stronger than wine. He probably shouldn't spent several days utterly drunk, even that he's supposed to be a pilot, but they're at a system for now. He honestly can't seem to think of responsibility right now.

He had been responsible before, and it had left him one arm short and with foreign magic that was still in his body slowly killing him. What was even the point of doing anything while he was stuck out in the void of space?

So he kept drinking and sleeping and doing very little else. He hadn't even been stopping to redo his kohl, and his make up free face makes him look older.

He pretty much only leaves his room to get something more to drink, and then again later on in the month when the crew of his ship and another fuses, but otherwise he's not really anywhere to be seen publicly or on the network.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Cyril shifts and blinks at Tyrion before the words seem to process.

"Ill-used?" he asks, rubbing his face a bit as he speaks to try to clear his mind a bit. "Doesn't that imply a lack of consent? I nearly always consent to anything, Tyrion. You ask me right now, what I'd be willing to do with you and it's near limitless."

Tyrion stares at Cyril for a few moments, his mis-matched eyes widening slightly, before he shakes his head.

"It is quite clear to me now. We need to sober you up immediately. You have clearly gone to the wrong side of drunken debauchery."

"Is there such thing as the wrong side of debauchery?" Cyril asks curiously.

"Yes, it is the side where someone as beautiful as you hits on a dwarf with this - " And he gestures to the scarring, the bow legs, the mismatched eyes, then smirks, " - along with not being interested in taking a male lover in the slightest. You are Too Drunk, Cyril."

Cyril blows out air in a 'pppphhhft' kind of sound. "Only the last one matters to me, my friend. Even when drunk, I'd prefer someone willing. But dwarves....? You know on Thedas they have all of the best technology. I've been dying to get to know one properly."

Tyrion is just going to stare at him for another moment, then gesture to ALL of him again. Honestly, look at this. He has scars, Cyril. He's got a big one on the side of his nose. Magical healing and modern medicine have taken care of most of it but STILL.

"...well I am not a Thedas dwarf." He paused, then allowed himself a moment of smugness, "However I do have the best technology there is to offer."

"That's the part that really matters," Cyril points out. "That and how talented you are with your... talents." He glances over Tyrion's body, clearly not taking the gesture to mean anything that turns him off.

"Oh, well, I am quite talented with my talents. I have never gotten a complaint, even when I was late with my coin." He gave a little bow, before he paused, "...I am starting to see why people would be confused on which side of the blankets I lay upon."

Cyril chuckles a bit. "Well, I'm just saying. You ever decide to experiment or that a mouth's a mouth no matter what, I'm here to help you. Until then, I'll try to be more careful with my flirting." A pause. "Even when I'm... incredibly drunk."

Tyrion took a moment to actually consider that, pursing his own lips as his mis-matched gaze flickered thoughtfully. "A mouth is a mouth - I have been in many whorehouses and I have never heard that particular argument. It is ... quite effective."

He thinks about it a little more, as he pours Cyril a glass of water, "Of course it doesn't seem fair. What if I do not use my mouth for your pleasure in turn?"

"Trust me, my friend. Swallowing every drop of your come would be more than enough pleasure for me."

Cyril takes the water though he keeps his focus on Tyrion. He's never been ashamed about being lewd, but something about his level of intoxicated makes the words all the more delicious to him.

"You know, I've worked hard to eliminate my gag reflex. You could fuck my mouth as viciously or as gently as you desire and I would love every moment of it."

Tyrion tips up an amused eyebrow - good Gods, Cyril is so drunk. He is going to get the man more water after this glass.

"Yes, but again, what are you getting out of that, Cyril? You should be with someone who wants to do all those things to you." He thinks about it. "Multiple times, in fact."

Cyril raises a brow. "And risk falling in love and hurting myself all over again? No thank you. At least with you, I'd know for sure it was all about using me with no complication."

He hadn't meant to be that honest. Maybe he was a little too drunk. He frowns at the glass of water as if it's at fault.

Tyrion tipped his chin sideways, before he huffed out a breath. "Love is a terrible risk, is it not?"

He sat down on his stool. "Sometimes I wish I had ever found out what love feels like."

"Now, that I can relate too," Cyril offers. He toasts to the sentiment too, though he knows it's water, and drinks.

"You're so full of wisdom today."

"I am often filled with wisdom, Cyril." He sniffed, with a smirk. "When I am not filled with wine."

He huffed softly, "However, that is no reason to not seek mutual pleasure, Cyril. I have learned a valuable lesson there too - at least sleep with someone who is not going to stab you repeatedly in the back. Metaphorically or otherwise."

Cyril shrugs. "That still sounds better than sleeping with someone who gives you hope that maybe you won't be alone forever."

He doesn't mean to make light of what Tyrion has been through, though, and seems to realize that he has after he says it. He winces. "Shit. Tyrion. I didn't mean that. Whoever that woman was, she made terrible choices. You have a fine back that is much better without stab wounds in it."

"Hmmmm ... honestly, it tends to be a mixed bag in my personal experience." Both hurt, emotionally and sometimes physically. Just in different, horrific ways.

"I have such a tiny back too ... I really can't fit any more stab wounds back there." He mused.

"Exactly," he says and he tilts his head a bit to check out Tyrion's back. "So let's both remain stab wound free."

He has broad shoulders and a tiny back, Cyril. Also a tiny adorable ass as well, so it's worth the look!

"I shall endeavor to remain so - but what if you change your mind?"

It was worth a look and Cyril is grinning as he moves back. "Change my mind and invite a stab to the back? I think that about covers how I lost my arm."