( maybe later felix will reflect on the strange, highly suspicious fact that he went straight for ephemera's dick. zero hesitation. right to the point, like this is a completely natural chain of events. he pops his fly and nimbly slides his hand inside, curving a firm grip around his cock. what's worse: that he's riding a fucking fever high, drugged out of his goddamn mind, or that it'd feel insanely, deliciously good even while stone-cold sober? that he wants it, regardless? that he's wanted it at all?
a warm hand slots between his thighs. felix's chest hitches on a tight, throaty sound, pulse hammering wildly beneath ephemera's tongue. he arches into the press of his palm, chasing the contact. )
Fuck.
( in contrast to the roughness in ephemera's voice, felix sounds dangerously soft; a budding whine, fractured at the edges. he snakes his hand from his trousers and spits into the cup of his palm. back to his cock again, squeezing him roughly in his fist, friction made slick and hot. he wants to paint him. even to a mindlessly wild felix, that means something. shouldn't be something he gives a fuck about, either. more strings to delicately pluck, more weaknesses to exploit. you're forgetting, gates. this man isn't your fucking friend.
( then, quieter: this man isn't who you want him to be. )
he exhales through his nose, swallowing roughly. considers, for a brief, insane second, picking up ephemera's discarded knife and stabbing him in the goddamn heart, to set the world and universe right again. this is wrong. felix doesn't let anyone back him into a fucking wall. ephemera doesn't stand over him, cocooning him from the outside world with his bulk and height, like he's someone to be protected. felix doesn't think about terrence fucking ephemera at all, not him on top of him, not his scars or his tattoos or his cock inside him. this is wrong. this shit should've ended on chorus. this is wrong.
his chest hitches again. tension ripples through him like a hairline crack on an icy pond, dragging his spine taut. he eases his grip in ephemera's hair and curves his body into tight alignment with ephemera's body, hiking ephemera's thigh higher between his legs. )
no subject
a warm hand slots between his thighs. felix's chest hitches on a tight, throaty sound, pulse hammering wildly beneath ephemera's tongue. he arches into the press of his palm, chasing the contact. )
Fuck.
( in contrast to the roughness in ephemera's voice, felix sounds dangerously soft; a budding whine, fractured at the edges. he snakes his hand from his trousers and spits into the cup of his palm. back to his cock again, squeezing him roughly in his fist, friction made slick and hot. he wants to paint him. even to a mindlessly wild felix, that means something. shouldn't be something he gives a fuck about, either. more strings to delicately pluck, more weaknesses to exploit. you're forgetting, gates. this man isn't your fucking friend.
( then, quieter: this man isn't who you want him to be. )
he exhales through his nose, swallowing roughly. considers, for a brief, insane second, picking up ephemera's discarded knife and stabbing him in the goddamn heart, to set the world and universe right again. this is wrong. felix doesn't let anyone back him into a fucking wall. ephemera doesn't stand over him, cocooning him from the outside world with his bulk and height, like he's someone to be protected. felix doesn't think about terrence fucking ephemera at all, not him on top of him, not his scars or his tattoos or his cock inside him. this is wrong. this shit should've ended on chorus. this is wrong.
his chest hitches again. tension ripples through him like a hairline crack on an icy pond, dragging his spine taut. he eases his grip in ephemera's hair and curves his body into tight alignment with ephemera's body, hiking ephemera's thigh higher between his legs. )
Tell me you want me, too.
( ridiculously, he needs to hear it. )