[This close, he does finally notice the stigmata peeking out from above the masquerade mask. The sight chills him, for reasons he can’t quite put his finger on yet. A too clever mind delves deep through the annals of recorded information, searching for anything relevant. Twelve, Tyki Mikk said. Well, it doesn’t take a genius to read between the lines. (Literally, in this case.)]
Trust me—[and he’s leaning down into Tyki’s space, one hand sliding free from its guarded position over his chest to find purchase on the back of the chaise lounge]—I’ve got nothing special going on.
[Hovering over the other man, he struggles weakly against the base desire urging him closer. This…this is dangerous. If he’s trying for some kind of pathetic powerplay here, Stiles is seriously in over his head. But logic and caution are dismissed; eyes hooded, the teen blows the plume of smoke away from his own face.]
You, though… Twelve is a pretty significant number, isn’t it? You’ve got twelve calendar months… [A knee slides up, pushing at Tyki’s propped leg until the limb drops down to provide a smooth surface.] Twelve hours per ante meridiem and post meridiem each. [Stiles lowers himself onto his self-made throne, perched in the other man’s lap.] Twelve…inches, [he continues, voice throaty, as he rests hands on shoulders,] in a foot.
That’s the easy stuff, though. [His gaze flicks to the stigmata again.] Twelve sons of Ishmael. Twelve Tribes of Israel. Twelve Apostles.
[Fingers fist the material of the Noah’s suit; Stiles is resisting the sudden need to lick the sweat from that marked brow.]
no subject
Trust me—[and he’s leaning down into Tyki’s space, one hand sliding free from its guarded position over his chest to find purchase on the back of the chaise lounge]—I’ve got nothing special going on.
[Hovering over the other man, he struggles weakly against the base desire urging him closer. This…this is dangerous. If he’s trying for some kind of pathetic powerplay here, Stiles is seriously in over his head. But logic and caution are dismissed; eyes hooded, the teen blows the plume of smoke away from his own face.]
You, though… Twelve is a pretty significant number, isn’t it? You’ve got twelve calendar months… [A knee slides up, pushing at Tyki’s propped leg until the limb drops down to provide a smooth surface.] Twelve hours per ante meridiem and post meridiem each. [Stiles lowers himself onto his self-made throne, perched in the other man’s lap.] Twelve…inches, [he continues, voice throaty, as he rests hands on shoulders,] in a foot.
That’s the easy stuff, though. [His gaze flicks to the stigmata again.] Twelve sons of Ishmael. Twelve Tribes of Israel. Twelve Apostles.
[Fingers fist the material of the Noah’s suit; Stiles is resisting the sudden need to lick the sweat from that marked brow.]
So, you in a cult, Tyki Mikk?