( the last time they met, it was on a rooftop, ephemera's back to a chainlink fence and felix stitched into his space, licking into the inviting warmth of his mouth. they haven't talked about it because they don't talk about most things that occur between them. easier to shove it down, bottle it up, move the fuck on, and agonize over it in private later, in a steamy bathroom, in bed, in the middle of goddamn breakfast during a particularly nasty hangover.
he thinks they won't talk about this later, too. he thinks ephemera doesn't know how much, and how fucking violently, he cycles through his head, every thought inside him a budding weed he can't uproot fast enough. he thinks he's been fucked for a long time.
he thinks if he wasn't fucked before, he'd be fucked now, as ephemera – thoughtlessly, easily – presses his knife into his hand.
even in the dark, felix knows the weight of a blade intimately. he flips the grip in his palm, not quite easing it from the clench of ephemera's callused fingers. instead, his hand unwinds from his hair and circles his wrist; he guides ephemera to felix's chest, where he can feel him angle the blade against the center of his clavicle, just under his throat. )
I'd let you. ( a soft, faraway echo of a single moment in a dusty arena, when he had the full brunt of ephemera's weight pinning him to the ground. he presses into the blade, razor-sharp tip indenting his skin just short of puncturing, and tilts his chin, ghosting his breath across his mouth. i'd let you, make him bleed. kiss him. touch him. rut him up against this fucking wall. anything to settle this maddening feeling inside him, anything to stop his nerves from shredding his insides like molten shrapnel, anything to get him out of his fucking head.
his grip on ephemera's wrist tightens sharply, grinding bone beneath his thumb. )
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he thinks they won't talk about this later, too. he thinks ephemera doesn't know how much, and how fucking violently, he cycles through his head, every thought inside him a budding weed he can't uproot fast enough. he thinks he's been fucked for a long time.
he thinks if he wasn't fucked before, he'd be fucked now, as ephemera – thoughtlessly, easily – presses his knife into his hand.
even in the dark, felix knows the weight of a blade intimately. he flips the grip in his palm, not quite easing it from the clench of ephemera's callused fingers. instead, his hand unwinds from his hair and circles his wrist; he guides ephemera to felix's chest, where he can feel him angle the blade against the center of his clavicle, just under his throat. )
I'd let you. ( a soft, faraway echo of a single moment in a dusty arena, when he had the full brunt of ephemera's weight pinning him to the ground. he presses into the blade, razor-sharp tip indenting his skin just short of puncturing, and tilts his chin, ghosting his breath across his mouth. i'd let you, make him bleed. kiss him. touch him. rut him up against this fucking wall. anything to settle this maddening feeling inside him, anything to stop his nerves from shredding his insides like molten shrapnel, anything to get him out of his fucking head.
his grip on ephemera's wrist tightens sharply, grinding bone beneath his thumb. )