( the volatile wave of ephemera's emotions, the up-down riptide, is a current felix has learned – against his will, through time spent in intimate proximity – how to navigate. he knows this tension, the way it uncoils through his body like a wire stretched dangerously taut. a red-lit warning before the inevitable nuclear meltdown, to felix, to anyone in the vicinity that keeps putting their hands on him uninvited.
some sharp, keen part of him that still exists under the boiling madness recognizes the strangeness in this solitary fact: ephemera doesn't flinch from him. he's never flinched from him. he pulls the knife from felix's bare throat and readily ruts his cock against his hip, but he doesn't flinch.
felix feels out of his goddamn mind. in the dark, everything is detached and distant, floating weightlessly through an endless void with ephemera as the only anchor. the urge to press into the blade and bleed himself for the fucking thrill of it is visceral. he turns his wrist, tightening his grip on the knife and smoothly angling it from ephemera's hand. he presses close, draping his arm over his shoulder. strokes the tip of the blade beneath ephemera's chin, light as a caress. )
I trust you. ( softly, none of his normal venom, none of his icy, carefully curated indifference. unyielding honesty, the kind he can't take back, the kind he can't blame on the fucking drugs. he exhales over ephemera's mouth and flips the blade away from his neck, dropping it to the ground. kicks it away, out of reach. his hand curls into ephemera's hair, pulling his head back to expose his throat for his wandering teeth and tongue. )
I want you.
( relentlessly, so much it drives him batshit crazy sometimes. he has no explanation for it, or for how natural it feels to move his hand between them and work blindly at ephemera's belt, unzipping his fly with a press of his thumb. he trusts him. he wants him. he's going to strangle himself in front of a fucking mirror later. penance, for this betrayal. )
I think about the way you'd feel on top of me all the fucking time.
no subject
some sharp, keen part of him that still exists under the boiling madness recognizes the strangeness in this solitary fact: ephemera doesn't flinch from him. he's never flinched from him. he pulls the knife from felix's bare throat and readily ruts his cock against his hip, but he doesn't flinch.
felix feels out of his goddamn mind. in the dark, everything is detached and distant, floating weightlessly through an endless void with ephemera as the only anchor. the urge to press into the blade and bleed himself for the fucking thrill of it is visceral. he turns his wrist, tightening his grip on the knife and smoothly angling it from ephemera's hand. he presses close, draping his arm over his shoulder. strokes the tip of the blade beneath ephemera's chin, light as a caress. )
I trust you. ( softly, none of his normal venom, none of his icy, carefully curated indifference. unyielding honesty, the kind he can't take back, the kind he can't blame on the fucking drugs. he exhales over ephemera's mouth and flips the blade away from his neck, dropping it to the ground. kicks it away, out of reach. his hand curls into ephemera's hair, pulling his head back to expose his throat for his wandering teeth and tongue. )
I want you.
( relentlessly, so much it drives him batshit crazy sometimes. he has no explanation for it, or for how natural it feels to move his hand between them and work blindly at ephemera's belt, unzipping his fly with a press of his thumb. he trusts him. he wants him. he's going to strangle himself in front of a fucking mirror later. penance, for this betrayal. )
I think about the way you'd feel on top of me all the fucking time.