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duplicity inbox / cw for nsfw shenanigans.
 TEXT / VOICE / VIDEO / ACTION NOTE: felix generally responds to everything in text, even voice or video calls. expect 90% of his replies to be text-based regardless of urgency. |
so how fucked up are you
[ What is he doing. Does he know? He does not. He is, however, very annoyed at it. ]
[ What is he doing. Does he know? He does not. He is, however, very annoyed at it. ]
drunk as fuuuuuuuck
( he might've held it together for .5 seconds longer had he not walked into his room to a photograph of his mother — creased and faded down the center from years of felix unfolding and refolding it into his pocket — stuffed inside his helmet, left for him while he was away.
it takes him a whole two minutes to even realize who's texting him. )
you got a lot of dumb motherfuckers in this city
easy to con if you want sth bad enough
how fucked up are your fingers
( fair's fair. )
( he might've held it together for .5 seconds longer had he not walked into his room to a photograph of his mother — creased and faded down the center from years of felix unfolding and refolding it into his pocket — stuffed inside his helmet, left for him while he was away.
it takes him a whole two minutes to even realize who's texting him. )
you got a lot of dumb motherfuckers in this city
easy to con if you want sth bad enough
how fucked up are your fingers
( fair's fair. )
FROM HERE.
( duplicity's border control runs surprisingly loose. felix makes it into the up without a single frisk, on his merry way following a simple scan of his device and a loaded gun tucked into his back waistband, safety very pointedly on. subversion isn't terribly difficult to locate, nor is crais, who cuts a pretty figure in a crowded room; he'd recognize that perfectly groomed face anywhere. and those fucking shoulders.
first things first: he slides in next to crais silently, angling his body toward him and leaning an elbow onto the bartop. his order — whiskey neat — is accompanied by a deliberate downward sweep of his lashes and silky smile, a hint of teeth directed at the bartender, venomously coy.
always heavily fortified, even in his civvies. )
Captain. ( with all the annoying irreverence of a man who's never followed a direct order in his life. he throws his whiskey back in one swallow like a good high-functioning alcoholic, stone-faced and steady. fuck. that's so much better than the shit he conned off some poor asshole in the down.
felix licks an errant drop of whiskey from the rim of the glass, then slides it back across the bartop and turns all his attention on crais. )
I like you better undressed.
Edited 2021-08-11 02:45 (UTC)
[Crais is, as always, dressed in black and red. At this time of year, his clothing is linen rather than leather, but there's still something very military about it - clean, simple lines, high collar, precision in the creases down the front of his pants and the way his cuffs are turned back to just below his elbows. Perfectly groomed goatee, hair tightly back with the length bound all the way down and that hiding a fairly massive scar at the back of his neck.
He tosses back his Fireball (because bright red and reeking of cinnamon is delicious, and he has nothing to prove) then pays the bar tender and turns to give Felix a slow look over. ]
I don't like you at all. [ Probably. Wouldn't admit it if he did. ] I also don't care what your opinion of this is: I want a safeword from you. If you don't already have one, now is the time to make one up.
He tosses back his Fireball (because bright red and reeking of cinnamon is delicious, and he has nothing to prove) then pays the bar tender and turns to give Felix a slow look over. ]
I don't like you at all. [ Probably. Wouldn't admit it if he did. ] I also don't care what your opinion of this is: I want a safeword from you. If you don't already have one, now is the time to make one up.
[ Duplicity is back on its bullshit. Ephemera doesn't really take pictures of his art - for exactly this fucking reason, as it turns out - but when there's a will, there's apparently a way. And someone has gotten into one of his sketchbooks. He draws in pen more often than not because it gets the lines deeper, starker, and this one's no different. He's sketched out a moment in some shitty Down hallway, Felix staring back on the page. His helmet off, blood running down a thick line on his throat, the shadowy hint of armor around the edges. Ephemera doesn't ever sketch himself, but there's a sense of movement in the picture, a memory instead of something imagined. Something brutal and raw, everything slowed down. The two of them staring at each other, the moment dragging like molasses.
This is the moment they should have killed each other. One of many. And it wasn't. Felix kissed him a moment later and it feels insane now but Ephemera kissed him back. He drew it afterward, like he knew he would. He had to make sense of it somehow, or at least try.
He didn't show anyone. He never would have. But sometimes it isn't a choice around here. ]
This is the moment they should have killed each other. One of many. And it wasn't. Felix kissed him a moment later and it feels insane now but Ephemera kissed him back. He drew it afterward, like he knew he would. He had to make sense of it somehow, or at least try.
He didn't show anyone. He never would have. But sometimes it isn't a choice around here. ]
( his phone buzzes off the table next to his bed and clatters to the floor.
felix swings awake violently, hand on his sidearm. the world twists around him sluggishly, or maybe that's just him, hungover and nauseous with a throbbing headache. gotta stop fucking drinking in this shithole. gotta stop doing a lot of shit, but fuck it, you only live once or multiple times, apparently, when the rules don't goddamn matter anymore.
it takes him a full three seconds of processing, sidearm pointed steadily into the darkness, before he realizes the strange sound is coming from his device on the floor. he rolls onto his belly and gropes for his phone, momentarily blinded as he unlocks the screen and a flood of white light washes over him. he squints at his face staring back at him. a shadowy photo of a sketch, eerily realistic. ephemera's handiwork.
the moment in the hallway, before felix curled his hand into his hair and licked into the yielding warmth of his mouth, damp with blood. )
ephemera
( wrong. ephemera wouldn't send him this shit, knowing the meaning behind it. that'd be spectacularly stupid, like handing someone a loaded gun and asking them to pull the trigger. he knows what felix would do with this information. he knows it's an exposed pulse begging for teeth.
he pinches his fingers into his eyes and roughly rubs his hand down his face, then looks at the sender.
no. that's definitely ephemera's name. )
you're either still breathing or you've come back for the express purpose of guilt tripping me from beyond the grave
and if that's the case i'm still a fucking asshole dude, surprise
( then: )
did it help
sketching it down
felix swings awake violently, hand on his sidearm. the world twists around him sluggishly, or maybe that's just him, hungover and nauseous with a throbbing headache. gotta stop fucking drinking in this shithole. gotta stop doing a lot of shit, but fuck it, you only live once or multiple times, apparently, when the rules don't goddamn matter anymore.
it takes him a full three seconds of processing, sidearm pointed steadily into the darkness, before he realizes the strange sound is coming from his device on the floor. he rolls onto his belly and gropes for his phone, momentarily blinded as he unlocks the screen and a flood of white light washes over him. he squints at his face staring back at him. a shadowy photo of a sketch, eerily realistic. ephemera's handiwork.
the moment in the hallway, before felix curled his hand into his hair and licked into the yielding warmth of his mouth, damp with blood. )
ephemera
( wrong. ephemera wouldn't send him this shit, knowing the meaning behind it. that'd be spectacularly stupid, like handing someone a loaded gun and asking them to pull the trigger. he knows what felix would do with this information. he knows it's an exposed pulse begging for teeth.
he pinches his fingers into his eyes and roughly rubs his hand down his face, then looks at the sender.
no. that's definitely ephemera's name. )
you're either still breathing or you've come back for the express purpose of guilt tripping me from beyond the grave
and if that's the case i'm still a fucking asshole dude, surprise
( then: )
did it help
sketching it down
[ It's one party after another around here, Ephemera thinks sourly. When he was younger, he used to like parties. Not like some of his teammates did - not like Rodriguez and his parade of one night stands and legendary hangovers - but enough to burn off steam and kill the bad memories after the drops went sour. Any fight you can walk away from is a good one, the captain used to say. It wasn't until later that the second, unspoken part of that saying really sank in. Any fight you can walk away from is a good one, so long as you get back up and make your enemy suffer for it.
Even in the early days, the captain had that vindictive streak. Something subtle and quiet, something that waited under the surface. A good lesson, Ephemera thinks - glaring at the crowd around him, and pulling his hood up over his face.
He's not in white. He went out because he was going stir crazy with all the noise outside and he doesn't own anything that's white. Apparently that's a problem around here. Apparently that's breaking the rules. And apparently that's not kosher, because he's backed into something resembling a ring - and that's familiar, at least. That's like being tossed back into prison when the guards started getting bored.
The oil is new, though. It soaks into his hair, into his scars, and - hatefully - starts worming its way behind his prosthetic. He got a bucket to the face when he told the organizer to go fuck themselves. And then another after the fact when he wouldn't take his clothes off. Ended up blind and sputtering for a moment while the rules were explained and haha. No.
Fuck this. Fuck this city, these people, fuck them all. He bares his teeth and when they come for him, he makes them pay for it. There's blood running thick down his throat when he's shoved into the ring, naked as fuck with all his scars and tattoos on his display. Blood running down his throat and skin in his teeth and oh, this is how they're going to play it, huh? This is how it goes?
Fuck them. Fuck them all. And then of course he sees his opponent.
Ephemera can't help but laugh. Loud and rough, too-sharp. ]
Of course it's fucking you.
[ His hands are twitching. ]
Even in the early days, the captain had that vindictive streak. Something subtle and quiet, something that waited under the surface. A good lesson, Ephemera thinks - glaring at the crowd around him, and pulling his hood up over his face.
He's not in white. He went out because he was going stir crazy with all the noise outside and he doesn't own anything that's white. Apparently that's a problem around here. Apparently that's breaking the rules. And apparently that's not kosher, because he's backed into something resembling a ring - and that's familiar, at least. That's like being tossed back into prison when the guards started getting bored.
The oil is new, though. It soaks into his hair, into his scars, and - hatefully - starts worming its way behind his prosthetic. He got a bucket to the face when he told the organizer to go fuck themselves. And then another after the fact when he wouldn't take his clothes off. Ended up blind and sputtering for a moment while the rules were explained and haha. No.
Fuck this. Fuck this city, these people, fuck them all. He bares his teeth and when they come for him, he makes them pay for it. There's blood running thick down his throat when he's shoved into the ring, naked as fuck with all his scars and tattoos on his display. Blood running down his throat and skin in his teeth and oh, this is how they're going to play it, huh? This is how it goes?
Fuck them. Fuck them all. And then of course he sees his opponent.
Ephemera can't help but laugh. Loud and rough, too-sharp. ]
Of course it's fucking you.
[ His hands are twitching. ]
( eventually, near the tail-end of the festivities, curiosity gets the better of him.
felix stayed outside the fringes for weeks, avoiding the scene not because he had a particular aversion to it, but the blinding abundance of white was a little off-putting and it wasn't his kind of party, regardless. maybe it was expected that someone would grab him the second he got too close. in this case, while idly plucking a grape from a table as he wove through milling bodies and sprawling, leafy decorations.
felix doesn't fight it. no point, with several strangers on either side of him, forcibly guiding him through the crowd. my fault, he thinks, as he mellowly pops the grape into his mouth as they prod him along to an unknown destination. what's the worst they can do, after all?
they corral him into a ring, strip him down and oil him up. felix observes all of this with an easy, lax indifference, even when someone across the ring starts making an awful lot of noise. hard to see past the strangers rigorously working all around him, their elaborate masks and headpieces obscuring his view until he tips to the side to peer around someone's robed shoulder, and. oh.
ephemera, hissing like a fucking cat. already bloodied.
time goes weird, for a second. maybe it's longer than a second. it must be, because suddenly he's fully naked, and someone's hand skims an oily path down his chest, palming his bare cock. felix latches onto their wrist in a split second, twisting sharply. hey now, he says, breezily.
another hand grabs him by the back of the neck, squeezes hard enough he half-buckles to one knee, and then unceremoniously shoves him forward. )
Okay, okay, easy. Fuck. We're all friends here.
( the hand releases him. felix shivers as that unbearable pressure on his implant ceases and runs his thumb up the nape of his neck. ghosts away the unpleasant sensation, replaces it with another, something to settle the sharp buzzing of his nerves under his skin.
what bad fucking timing. convenient. bizarrely convenient, that they'd end up in the same place at the same time. ephemera's already twitching, scarred up and tatted. felix looks at him through his lashes, his face carefully shuttered. he's worked up and exposed, not thinking clearly, and that's a weakness felix can use to his advantage. already thinking of ways he can pin him, except that doesn't matter here, does it? not part of the rules. )
You go for my balls this time, I'll rip yours off with my teeth. ( pull it in, tighten the reins, all in that same breezy tone. casual, like he's talking to a colleage. this is gonna be fucking ugly. he hooks his thumb into the space between his collar and neck, rolling his shoulder back. ) I won't touch your implant if you don't touch mine.
( fair warning. )
felix stayed outside the fringes for weeks, avoiding the scene not because he had a particular aversion to it, but the blinding abundance of white was a little off-putting and it wasn't his kind of party, regardless. maybe it was expected that someone would grab him the second he got too close. in this case, while idly plucking a grape from a table as he wove through milling bodies and sprawling, leafy decorations.
felix doesn't fight it. no point, with several strangers on either side of him, forcibly guiding him through the crowd. my fault, he thinks, as he mellowly pops the grape into his mouth as they prod him along to an unknown destination. what's the worst they can do, after all?
they corral him into a ring, strip him down and oil him up. felix observes all of this with an easy, lax indifference, even when someone across the ring starts making an awful lot of noise. hard to see past the strangers rigorously working all around him, their elaborate masks and headpieces obscuring his view until he tips to the side to peer around someone's robed shoulder, and. oh.
ephemera, hissing like a fucking cat. already bloodied.
time goes weird, for a second. maybe it's longer than a second. it must be, because suddenly he's fully naked, and someone's hand skims an oily path down his chest, palming his bare cock. felix latches onto their wrist in a split second, twisting sharply. hey now, he says, breezily.
another hand grabs him by the back of the neck, squeezes hard enough he half-buckles to one knee, and then unceremoniously shoves him forward. )
Okay, okay, easy. Fuck. We're all friends here.
( the hand releases him. felix shivers as that unbearable pressure on his implant ceases and runs his thumb up the nape of his neck. ghosts away the unpleasant sensation, replaces it with another, something to settle the sharp buzzing of his nerves under his skin.
what bad fucking timing. convenient. bizarrely convenient, that they'd end up in the same place at the same time. ephemera's already twitching, scarred up and tatted. felix looks at him through his lashes, his face carefully shuttered. he's worked up and exposed, not thinking clearly, and that's a weakness felix can use to his advantage. already thinking of ways he can pin him, except that doesn't matter here, does it? not part of the rules. )
You go for my balls this time, I'll rip yours off with my teeth. ( pull it in, tighten the reins, all in that same breezy tone. casual, like he's talking to a colleage. this is gonna be fucking ugly. he hooks his thumb into the space between his collar and neck, rolling his shoulder back. ) I won't touch your implant if you don't touch mine.
( fair warning. )
[ Thing is, he needs to test the armor. Hoarding it away in his room doesn't get him anything if he needs to break it out suddenly and it turns out he doesn't know how to move in it. Then it's dead weight, less than useless, and whatever advantage he's managed to hide away will be null and void. He hasn't gone after Carolina yet - not yet - but one day he will. One day he'll need to.
So he goes out to the Down, in the dark, and he runs his tests. He finds a place that skirts the divide between derelict, shady, and unobtrusive, and he makes that work. He wears the rig over and sticks to the shadows, like he's running with the Insurrection again, like he's running with Carter Boone and all the others, and it -
It fits like a glove, is the thing. Crais knows his trade. There are differences from his old rig, things that Crais either improvised from Ephemera's sketches or added on his own, but it works. There's no delay with the interface, the HUD flashing up readings like clockwork.
It's like being back home. Almost, but not quite a comfort. And when he moves, he moves with all the power and speed of a full rig behind him. The silhouette is a little different, the shoulders and the helmet carved along slightly different lines, but it does what Ephemera needs it to. In a fight, it'll keep him alive. Only question now is when he'll break it out.
And how he'll paint it. Right now, the surface is just gunmetal gray. Scuffed up where he put the armor through its paces, but other than that - a ghost. Unremarkable.
He'll have to paint it. Make it look how it ought to. Make up some stencils, break out the spray paint. And fuss with the flamethrower a bit. The ignition trigger's just fine when he hits it manually, but he's having some trouble getting it to synch up to the HUD. Might be a tech issue he'll have to bug Crais about. Might be a hardware one he can fix himself.
Ephemera leans back, slowing his breathing down. He's been here for hours. Sun's going to come up soon and he'll need to bail before anyone sees him.
Which is, of course, when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye.
He doesn't hesitate. He just lifts his arm up and engages the flamethrower. Gets it ready. ]
I know you're fucking there.
So he goes out to the Down, in the dark, and he runs his tests. He finds a place that skirts the divide between derelict, shady, and unobtrusive, and he makes that work. He wears the rig over and sticks to the shadows, like he's running with the Insurrection again, like he's running with Carter Boone and all the others, and it -
It fits like a glove, is the thing. Crais knows his trade. There are differences from his old rig, things that Crais either improvised from Ephemera's sketches or added on his own, but it works. There's no delay with the interface, the HUD flashing up readings like clockwork.
It's like being back home. Almost, but not quite a comfort. And when he moves, he moves with all the power and speed of a full rig behind him. The silhouette is a little different, the shoulders and the helmet carved along slightly different lines, but it does what Ephemera needs it to. In a fight, it'll keep him alive. Only question now is when he'll break it out.
And how he'll paint it. Right now, the surface is just gunmetal gray. Scuffed up where he put the armor through its paces, but other than that - a ghost. Unremarkable.
He'll have to paint it. Make it look how it ought to. Make up some stencils, break out the spray paint. And fuss with the flamethrower a bit. The ignition trigger's just fine when he hits it manually, but he's having some trouble getting it to synch up to the HUD. Might be a tech issue he'll have to bug Crais about. Might be a hardware one he can fix himself.
Ephemera leans back, slowing his breathing down. He's been here for hours. Sun's going to come up soon and he'll need to bail before anyone sees him.
Which is, of course, when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye.
He doesn't hesitate. He just lifts his arm up and engages the flamethrower. Gets it ready. ]
I know you're fucking there.
( the city has a pretty fucked up sense of humor.
only explanation that makes sense when, by some sick twist of fate, he keeps circling back into ephemera's space even when his intention is to keep his distance. they find each other repeatedly, like the gravity of the sun pulling them into endless orbit. no fighting it. like attracts like. they're on a cyclical collision course that can't be diverted to a less catastrophic path.
but he truly isn't expecting to find ephemera skulking around the down at close to 5 in the morning. definitely isn't expecting to find him in a full rig, either, covered head-to-toe in steely gray. he knows who he is, even before he spots the spout of flame, even before he speaks. ephemera moves with purpose, viciously efficient. brutal in ways that remind him of ortez sometimes, but less controlled, not as eerily graceful.
he lingers in the shadows, out of sight, earbuds dangling loosely over one shoulder. the motherfucker had a rig the whole fucking time – or one already in reserve, judging by the distinct lack of cosmetics imperfections. he's running diagnostics, testing for flaws or weaknesses, feeling out how it operates and moves. no other reason he'd be out here in the dark, by himself.
fully-functioning hud, too. felix rubs his thumb into his eye, and ephemera catches the movement. no hiding from a man with motion sensors. he hears the hiss of gas, ephemera readying his flamethrower.
fine, he thinks. he could've turned around and gone back the way he came. not really his style.
he steps out of the dark, dressed down in joggers and a t-shirt. barely armed except for a switchblade in his pocket given to him by a fucking vampire, nestled next to his device and a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a matchbook with a bar logo embossed in gold print on the front. )
Well. You've been keeping secrets. ( loose and offhand, though he keeps his distance, far out of reach of ephemera's flamethrower if he decides to kick it on. plenty of interesting ways to die. being set on fire isn't one of the ways he wants to go.
he forks his hand through his hair, combing sweat-damp strands from his face. they haven't talked since the festival, an encounter that felix has run through his head exhaustively, more times than he's willing to admit. his eyes flit down, slowly scanning the full length of ephemera's rig. back up again, holding on his face, hidden by the helmet. )
I'm a little hurt.
only explanation that makes sense when, by some sick twist of fate, he keeps circling back into ephemera's space even when his intention is to keep his distance. they find each other repeatedly, like the gravity of the sun pulling them into endless orbit. no fighting it. like attracts like. they're on a cyclical collision course that can't be diverted to a less catastrophic path.
but he truly isn't expecting to find ephemera skulking around the down at close to 5 in the morning. definitely isn't expecting to find him in a full rig, either, covered head-to-toe in steely gray. he knows who he is, even before he spots the spout of flame, even before he speaks. ephemera moves with purpose, viciously efficient. brutal in ways that remind him of ortez sometimes, but less controlled, not as eerily graceful.
he lingers in the shadows, out of sight, earbuds dangling loosely over one shoulder. the motherfucker had a rig the whole fucking time – or one already in reserve, judging by the distinct lack of cosmetics imperfections. he's running diagnostics, testing for flaws or weaknesses, feeling out how it operates and moves. no other reason he'd be out here in the dark, by himself.
fully-functioning hud, too. felix rubs his thumb into his eye, and ephemera catches the movement. no hiding from a man with motion sensors. he hears the hiss of gas, ephemera readying his flamethrower.
fine, he thinks. he could've turned around and gone back the way he came. not really his style.
he steps out of the dark, dressed down in joggers and a t-shirt. barely armed except for a switchblade in his pocket given to him by a fucking vampire, nestled next to his device and a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a matchbook with a bar logo embossed in gold print on the front. )
Well. You've been keeping secrets. ( loose and offhand, though he keeps his distance, far out of reach of ephemera's flamethrower if he decides to kick it on. plenty of interesting ways to die. being set on fire isn't one of the ways he wants to go.
he forks his hand through his hair, combing sweat-damp strands from his face. they haven't talked since the festival, an encounter that felix has run through his head exhaustively, more times than he's willing to admit. his eyes flit down, slowly scanning the full length of ephemera's rig. back up again, holding on his face, hidden by the helmet. )
I'm a little hurt.
[ Things turn. They always do around this place, so it shouldn't be any kind of fucking surprise when the world goes belly up. Like gravity inverting on a ship, life support crapping out. All that shit you can't prepare for but still have to take. Most of his clothes are gone - no fucking loss, they weren't his in the first place - but his knives magically vanished along with. All but one tucked into his ankle holster, which miraculously survived the purge, because now he's wandering around shirtless like an idiot with a lone blade to his name and the darkness settling in more literally than usual.
It's pitch fucking black. The kind of darkness you can reach out and touch, worse than floating in dead space. This isn't cold. This isn't empty. There's a heaviness to the air, bodies pressing close, everyone breathing too loud and too quick. And then -
His skin feels too goddamn tight. A different sort of ache pulsing through his joints. He can feel himself twitching. Sweating. ]
Fuck.
[ Gritted out from between clenched teeth. Too much. Too sharp. And people keep bumping into him, no matter how much he snarls and flinches away. No matter that he lunged forward and took a bite out of the last fucker with his teeth, like an animal. No matter that he can still taste the blood in his throat, hot and cloying like copper pennies. No matter that he flinches again when someone comes in too close, bare skin brushing against a burn scar on his arm, and Ephemera just reaches. Surging forward with a hiss, a stranger's blood running hot down his chin and a knife in his hand. He puts the blade up, readying himself for an enemy he can't see and hating - hating - that the ache suddenly twists into something worse and better and worse when they touch.
Skin to skin. Haha. Of course. ]
I'll kill you.
[ A low promise. He's backed them into a wall, whoever it is. Got the knife up, ready to punch forward. ]
Don't touch me-
[ And he freezes. Because this might be the first time like this, in the dark, but he knows this stance. This man. ]
Felix?
It's pitch fucking black. The kind of darkness you can reach out and touch, worse than floating in dead space. This isn't cold. This isn't empty. There's a heaviness to the air, bodies pressing close, everyone breathing too loud and too quick. And then -
His skin feels too goddamn tight. A different sort of ache pulsing through his joints. He can feel himself twitching. Sweating. ]
Fuck.
[ Gritted out from between clenched teeth. Too much. Too sharp. And people keep bumping into him, no matter how much he snarls and flinches away. No matter that he lunged forward and took a bite out of the last fucker with his teeth, like an animal. No matter that he can still taste the blood in his throat, hot and cloying like copper pennies. No matter that he flinches again when someone comes in too close, bare skin brushing against a burn scar on his arm, and Ephemera just reaches. Surging forward with a hiss, a stranger's blood running hot down his chin and a knife in his hand. He puts the blade up, readying himself for an enemy he can't see and hating - hating - that the ache suddenly twists into something worse and better and worse when they touch.
Skin to skin. Haha. Of course. ]
I'll kill you.
[ A low promise. He's backed them into a wall, whoever it is. Got the knife up, ready to punch forward. ]
Don't touch me-
[ And he freezes. Because this might be the first time like this, in the dark, but he knows this stance. This man. ]
Felix?
( not for the first time since his arrival to duplicity, felix stands in a room ( is it even a room? he doesn't know ) and wonders how the fuck he got here.
the darkness is a tangible void on par with the frozen black of space, infinite and vast. he thinks he's drunk, or something akin to drunk, both too cold and too hot in a pair of obscenely tight latex trousers he's relatively ( but not entirely ) certain he never purchased or put on himself. nothing to hide, no room for weapons. just the perpetually bruised knuckles on his fucking fists, and the asphyxiating press of faceless bodies writhing all around him in the formless dark.
straight out of a nightmare, in multiple parts: unidentified hands at his front, his back. he may or may not break a stranger's wrist for – accidentally – touching his implant, and has to fight the violent urge to crawl right out of his fucking skin. instincts say get the fuck out, now, before something or someone –
grabs him, pins him flush to a wall beneath their unyielding bulk. his chest rattles on a choppy laugh, feral. itching for the fight. that's instinct, too. he wedges his heel against the wall, hitching his weight off the ground and leveraging the full brunt of his body into his unlucky detainer's broad chest. his half-baked plan: wrap his legs around his waist and wrangle him to the goddamn ground before he can pop off a hit.
he gets halfway there, knuckling a fistful of velvet-thick hair at his nape.
then, of course, because fate is a sick motherfucker,
felix? )
Ephemera, ( is his immediate reply, calm as still waters, as if they're not standing there with felix's legs around him, two seconds from a bloody brawl. the hand in ephemera's hair loosens in small, ticking increments, nearly reluctant, before he releases him all at once and drops solidly to the ground. )
the darkness is a tangible void on par with the frozen black of space, infinite and vast. he thinks he's drunk, or something akin to drunk, both too cold and too hot in a pair of obscenely tight latex trousers he's relatively ( but not entirely ) certain he never purchased or put on himself. nothing to hide, no room for weapons. just the perpetually bruised knuckles on his fucking fists, and the asphyxiating press of faceless bodies writhing all around him in the formless dark.
straight out of a nightmare, in multiple parts: unidentified hands at his front, his back. he may or may not break a stranger's wrist for – accidentally – touching his implant, and has to fight the violent urge to crawl right out of his fucking skin. instincts say get the fuck out, now, before something or someone –
grabs him, pins him flush to a wall beneath their unyielding bulk. his chest rattles on a choppy laugh, feral. itching for the fight. that's instinct, too. he wedges his heel against the wall, hitching his weight off the ground and leveraging the full brunt of his body into his unlucky detainer's broad chest. his half-baked plan: wrap his legs around his waist and wrangle him to the goddamn ground before he can pop off a hit.
he gets halfway there, knuckling a fistful of velvet-thick hair at his nape.
then, of course, because fate is a sick motherfucker,
felix? )
Ephemera, ( is his immediate reply, calm as still waters, as if they're not standing there with felix's legs around him, two seconds from a bloody brawl. the hand in ephemera's hair loosens in small, ticking increments, nearly reluctant, before he releases him all at once and drops solidly to the ground. )
I just read your interaction with Ephemera on the finder. We need to talk. In person.
[ There is a card. It just reads <3 <3 <3 Crais. ]
Meet Quentin! You two should talk about bondage!
Hi sorry I guess devices are doing this today, hope this isn't your first one
Hi sorry I guess devices are doing this today, hope this isn't your first one
MEET CAITLIN SNOW, YOU TWO SHOULD TALK ABOUT KNIFEPLAY!
most ppl don't jump straight to knifeplay
usually there's a drink involved first
sometimes several drinks
a long discussion abt consent and boundaries
( at this point, felix is well aware of the city's shenaniganry. might as well play into it for the kicks. )
usually there's a drink involved first
sometimes several drinks
a long discussion abt consent and boundaries
( at this point, felix is well aware of the city's shenaniganry. might as well play into it for the kicks. )
MEET WADE WILSON! YOU TWO SHOULD TALK ABOUT NIPPLE CLAMPS!
( pierce strickland hates being told what he can and cannot do, but it seems all he has been hearing as of late is, well, just that. it fucking pisses him off.
he doesn't do well being restricted and told to sit down and behave like he's some goddamn dog on a leash. everything is so fucked right now. from oli to nick, he keeps hitting this giant ass wall with them, one that's been cluttered with obnoxiously bright flashing neon signs pointing straight down at him to remind him in big fucking bold letters how he's a real fucking failure of a friend. he is sick and tired of feeling guilty and he is sick and tired of being treated like he needs to be handled with caution.
he can be patient and tolerant, and approach the situation like a fucking level-headed saint.
he just needs to get his fix in first and, well, tonight his fix is the first competent-looking son of a bitch that crosses his path in the down. unlike the up, gangs rule over the slums, so it's like a fun little hotspot for catching a criminal or someone who looks just the right amount of sleazy to clock in the fucking face.
spoiler alert: that sleazeball would be you, felix. it's you. 👉👉 )
he doesn't do well being restricted and told to sit down and behave like he's some goddamn dog on a leash. everything is so fucked right now. from oli to nick, he keeps hitting this giant ass wall with them, one that's been cluttered with obnoxiously bright flashing neon signs pointing straight down at him to remind him in big fucking bold letters how he's a real fucking failure of a friend. he is sick and tired of feeling guilty and he is sick and tired of being treated like he needs to be handled with caution.
he can be patient and tolerant, and approach the situation like a fucking level-headed saint.
he just needs to get his fix in first and, well, tonight his fix is the first competent-looking son of a bitch that crosses his path in the down. unlike the up, gangs rule over the slums, so it's like a fun little hotspot for catching a criminal or someone who looks just the right amount of sleazy to clock in the fucking face.
spoiler alert: that sleazeball would be you, felix. it's you. 👉👉 )
( oh boy. in all fairness, he did ask, but this feels like cheating. )
sth you already had on hand, or did you keep it in reserve for moments like this?
in case of felix-related emergencies break glass and pour him a stiff one
( his mortal weakness. )
how's it going, drake? you running interference or did you just miss me?
sth you already had on hand, or did you keep it in reserve for moments like this?
in case of felix-related emergencies break glass and pour him a stiff one
( his mortal weakness. )
how's it going, drake? you running interference or did you just miss me?
surprising considering how much experience you have w ppl ditching you in your everyday life
you're like a treasure trove of abandonment issues
( a little nugget-sized potshot, as a treat. more to the point, because he highly doubts wash is sliding into his dms for a round of sloppy seconds: )
what do you want?
you're like a treasure trove of abandonment issues
( a little nugget-sized potshot, as a treat. more to the point, because he highly doubts wash is sliding into his dms for a round of sloppy seconds: )
what do you want?
Edited 2022-08-23 23:43 (UTC)
( the way he is utterly unsurprised to see wash's name flash across his phone screen. he's tempted to turn his phone facedown on the bar and ignore it altogether in favor of ordering another drink, but knowing wash, he'd come looking for him if he didn't respond in a quasi-timely manner.
so, some handful of minutes later, )
wdyw
so, some handful of minutes later, )
wdyw
[ Two folded pieces of paper are slipped under the door. One is a note; one sentence written in Ephemera's neat, compact handwriting: ]
look after my armor
[ The second is a sketch, done in black ink, of an alien temple jutting up toward the sky on some hole in the wall planet far back nowhere called Chorus. A graveyard, in some respects, but the sketch doesn't show that. Only a marker. We were here. It happened.
Someone ought to remember. ]
look after my armor
[ The second is a sketch, done in black ink, of an alien temple jutting up toward the sky on some hole in the wall planet far back nowhere called Chorus. A graveyard, in some respects, but the sketch doesn't show that. Only a marker. We were here. It happened.
Someone ought to remember. ]
( waking up to a vaguely threatening text from an unknown number and name on his phone. must be a day that ends in y! )
there are plenty of other people in the city whose shit i've already rocked so you're gonna have to elaborate a little more than that for me
who's this?
there are plenty of other people in the city whose shit i've already rocked so you're gonna have to elaborate a little more than that for me
who's this?
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