( too close, like ephemera isn't boxing him into a wall, like felix isn't – very tellingly, perhaps – letting him.
a hairline twitch, where his hand gently wreathes ephemera's throat. his pulse beats steady and strong under felix's palm, loosely anchoring him to the moment. he'll think about this later like how he thinks about every single fucking moment he's had with ephemera in this godforsaken city, and curse himself to a thousand different hells for not turning it violent. like it would have helped. like it would have made the slightest bit of difference. it never does.
but isn't this familiar, too? the warm pull of ephemera's body, hooking felix into his yawning gravity. he flexes his hand around ephemera's throat, then glides his touch further back, over his nape and implant, into his hair.
he knows his body. he knows him, in wretched and imperfect detail. )
Wouldn't still be here if I did.
( translation: this isn't fun for him either. neurotic control freak first, shameless whore second, always in that order.
he squeezes his hand in ephemera's hair. focuses, for a moment, on the cool, idle expanse of wall at his back over ephemera's roiling heat in front of him. his free hand finds ephemera's arm and skims down the length of his bicep, mapping the curve of his elbow and wrist with his fingertips. then the knife, clenched in his fist. )
no subject
a hairline twitch, where his hand gently wreathes ephemera's throat. his pulse beats steady and strong under felix's palm, loosely anchoring him to the moment. he'll think about this later like how he thinks about every single fucking moment he's had with ephemera in this godforsaken city, and curse himself to a thousand different hells for not turning it violent. like it would have helped. like it would have made the slightest bit of difference. it never does.
but isn't this familiar, too? the warm pull of ephemera's body, hooking felix into his yawning gravity. he flexes his hand around ephemera's throat, then glides his touch further back, over his nape and implant, into his hair.
he knows his body. he knows him, in wretched and imperfect detail. )
Wouldn't still be here if I did.
( translation: this isn't fun for him either. neurotic control freak first, shameless whore second, always in that order.
he squeezes his hand in ephemera's hair. focuses, for a moment, on the cool, idle expanse of wall at his back over ephemera's roiling heat in front of him. his free hand finds ephemera's arm and skims down the length of his bicep, mapping the curve of his elbow and wrist with his fingertips. then the knife, clenched in his fist. )
You gonna make me bleed?