( 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. )
no subject
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. )