( it occurs to felix – as they roll again, ephemera's back hitting the dirt – that he hasn't gone for his throat yet in any way that matters. the simplest, most brutal way to end this fight would be strangling him until he stops struggling, and he wonders why he hasn't tried it yet. too personal in a way that beating the shit out of someone isn't, maybe. strangulation takes time and deliberate, unwavering effort. more time means more time for doubt. most people don't have the balls. maybe the ephemera on chorus would've done it. this ephemera is different. changed.
felix has leverage on top of him, but ephemera has weight and width, and he can't hold the same position long enough to subdue him unless he gets him in a chokehold. no good fucking way to end this fight.
then ephemera nails him in the head and sends him reeling. his vision starbursts into blinding white. fuck, he hits hard. his direct blows are worse than his teeth in his skin, and felix has blood all over him now, running down his throat and collar, spattered across his bruised knuckles. his thighs squeeze ephemera's hips reflexively as he feels himself nearly topple sideways, recovering with a woozy, wounded little sound.
he sways forward instead, bracing his hand above ephemera's head. hard to think. feels like a valium high, close to euphoria. good. not enough, but nothing is. ephemera is so fucking warm, and he's got his blood in his mouth again. )
You still hit like a bitch. Fucking do something.
( his coordination has gone to shit. felix doesn't often take direct hits unless he's been caught off guard, not when he's out of armor. he's won every bar fight he's ever picked only because he's a terror who smashes beer bottles into weaponizable shards. people very rarely expect some ballistic asshole to come at them with a shard of glass, slicing his own hand to ribbons in the process. he has a scar to prove it, silvery and jagged, extending from middle finger to wrist on his right hand.
no glass here. no knives, either. no fucking weight advantage. that's fine. it's all fine.
he still winds back and punches him again, sloppy but committed. maybe he'll get lucky and break his nose a third time. )
no subject
felix has leverage on top of him, but ephemera has weight and width, and he can't hold the same position long enough to subdue him unless he gets him in a chokehold. no good fucking way to end this fight.
then ephemera nails him in the head and sends him reeling. his vision starbursts into blinding white. fuck, he hits hard. his direct blows are worse than his teeth in his skin, and felix has blood all over him now, running down his throat and collar, spattered across his bruised knuckles. his thighs squeeze ephemera's hips reflexively as he feels himself nearly topple sideways, recovering with a woozy, wounded little sound.
he sways forward instead, bracing his hand above ephemera's head. hard to think. feels like a valium high, close to euphoria. good. not enough, but nothing is. ephemera is so fucking warm, and he's got his blood in his mouth again. )
You still hit like a bitch. Fucking do something.
( his coordination has gone to shit. felix doesn't often take direct hits unless he's been caught off guard, not when he's out of armor. he's won every bar fight he's ever picked only because he's a terror who smashes beer bottles into weaponizable shards. people very rarely expect some ballistic asshole to come at them with a shard of glass, slicing his own hand to ribbons in the process. he has a scar to prove it, silvery and jagged, extending from middle finger to wrist on his right hand.
no glass here. no knives, either. no fucking weight advantage. that's fine. it's all fine.
he still winds back and punches him again, sloppy but committed. maybe he'll get lucky and break his nose a third time. )