( bad form to corner himself into a room with only one fucking exit. even felix – careless and reckless as he is, a perpetual flirt with impending disaster – knows better, and both instinct and muscle memory scream against it as he splinters the goddamn door in its frame on his way into the bedroom, illuminated only by the light of the moon.

but, despite corralling himself like a fucking animal onto a silver platter for sam's convenience, he's light on his feet, pivoting on his heel and wedging his hip against the bedstand table littered with uncapped pill and liquor bottles. he strips off his waterlogged jacket, unconcerned. blood rolls in thin rivulets down his arm, siphoning off his fingertips and dripping on his boots; felix flexes his hand into a sliver of pale moonlight cutting through the dark, intently studying the mess. samuel, inked in neat letters on his ring finger, barely legible through a thick smear of red.

feels like karma, almost. a lot of things have felt like that lately. fashionably late, and here to rock his shit. )

Just got lucky, I guess.

( i don't need luck, he'd said, the last time they met. his luck is a towering machine of a man in full-body armor staring down the funnel of a scope into this specific bedroom, unblinking.

sam lingers by the door, and felix follows his eyes to the bed, empty and crisply made. the dutiful work of some poor, long-suffering housekeeper, no doubt. his turn to raise a neat little eyebrow, accompanied by a leisurely, indulgent glance over the length of sam's body. never seen a rig that leaves so little to the imagination, but he's not complaining. wouldn't be the worst fucking sight in the world, if he had to die. )

I could beg again. ( he eases his full weight onto the bedstand, thighs spreading into a sprawling v. a handmade invitation, just for sam. ) Can you even fuck in that thing? Looks a little ( a hitching pause, as his eyes return to sam's face, ) tight.

( come closer and tell him all about it, sweetheart. )