[ there's the word: attractive. choking on his own anger, spitting bile between clenched jaws. felix is frenetic and alive, when so many people have set aside their humanity for survival or pleasure or dispassion.
(it's so often that his battlefields are populated by breathing corpses, by men and women who might as well already be dead, thrown into circumstances against their will or beyond their conviction.)
the dust does settle around them. mortar and frayed paint, desiccated wood. sam, wet hair sticking to the strong angles of his face, white and red still streaked over sun-blessed skin, finally pulls his sword from the clench of felix's body. innuendo intended. ]
Don't get me wrong. Would have loved to.
[ fuck him? kill him? sam doesn't draw the line in the sand, and leaves the delineation to what may or may not happen in the future; fate likes to play games, and he doesn't like to roll dice. what he knows now, with his blade now angled at the bob of felix's throat, is that he'd like to kiss him.
so. he does. the katana still a sweet threat by felix's jugular, and his knee touching the fractured ground to grant him access, with the curve of his spine, to felix's poison-stained mouth. the implied get out ignored, and with the knowledge that, a few yards away, samuel ortez may be watching from the other side of a scope.
he tastes iron and fire in felix's mouth. those furious eyes are fucking gorgeous, just the way he remembers them. ]
γΌRain check, kitty-cat.
[ their lips part (likely not without a bite or two or three). he's been distracted enough; time to finish what he came here to do. ]
( for a wretched, treacherous moment, felix's mouth goes slack and warmly pliant under the carnivorous press of sam's mouth. his chest hitches as he exhales shakily around a probing lick from sam's tongue, and the sharp taste of salt and copper, an organic cocktail of felix's tears and sam's blood. he'll blame it on blood loss later, as he's taking meticulous stock of his injuries ( a punctured shoulder, several cracked ribs, a profusely bleeding cut on his bicep ) and losses ( cash, pride, a stolen kiss ).
he won't realize β now or later, until it's too late β that what sam leaves behind is far worse than anything he could ever take from him. a minuscule seed, buried in the upturned soil of felix's insides, finding root in his softest, ugliest parts and sprouting thorns. a disease. a fucking infection. he's going to fucking kill him, slowly, viciously. he's going to use his guts as garland. he's going to hook his thighs around his hips and beg him, tearstruck, to fuck him here, on top of bloodied carpet and splintered furniture, in full view of ortez's steady scope. he wants to be hollowed out and thoroughly emptied. he wants to feel fucking nothing.
this isn't right. get the fuck out of my head.
he chokes on a guttural, animal sound, throat seizing violently. by the time he thinks to go for the blade in his boot, sam is gone, out of reach, and felix is left to slash madly at empty air. oh fuck, he thinks feverishly, and rolls to his knees, crawling over dusty rubble for his jacket pinned under the busted remnants of a wooden wardrobe.
in his right pocket, a biofoam injection from home sweet home, to staunch the bleeding, stabbed directly into his gaping shoulder. he retches through the pain as his chest convulses on a wheezy sob. never gets any easier. never hurts any fucking less.
then, finally: ear-ringing silence, punctuated by felix's choppy breaths. it feels like hours, but ortez arrives to this decimated bedroom in record time, his savior framed in fading moonlight, dressed head-to-toe in black steel. he's greeted by a wild, screaming felix, who tries ( and fails ) to stab him no less than twenty times. why didn't you go for the fucking mark, you stupid fuck? you think i give a fuck what happens to me? you think i care? fuck you, locus. this shit is on you.
locus β all silent bulk, all frightening faceless patience β tanks the rogue waves of felix's rage with seasoned experience, unbreaking. until the world tilts under him, and blood loss really does catch up to him. distantly, felix registers ortez's grip on his wrist tightening into a bruising vise.
he slips under as he's hauled effortlessly over ortez's shoulder, limp as a rag doll, and drifts to a dark, warm place, to dream of sam. )
[ some people don't get high on their first exposure to noxious fumes; it happens later, when the brain registers on the second hit that it knows what this shit is meant to do now, and gleefully succumbs to being fucking wasted.
the hangover comes before the rush. felix wants to feel nothing, and sam is gliding from floor to fucking floor, suddenly in tune with everything and anything, his awareness like piano wire pulled just to the brink of breaking. broken lights, mirrors, the smell of exorbitantly expensive cologne mixed with rum and tequila, the weight of an unconscious criminal slung over his shoulder. the unnamed sniper doesn't come to put a hole in sam's fucking skull during the few minutes that sam spends in technicolor, and, as he's maneuvering through and out into the blissful stench of this foreign hellscape, sam tips his bloodied face to the moons hanging above him and shutters his eyes.
out of his fucking mind, he thinks.
what else is new?
(what happens next is: he trades his mark for six months' rent. interrogation isn't his style; he leaves that to an affable-looking sociopath with rubber gloves snapped up to his fucking elbow, and casually gets the name of whoever else in this latrine of a city would've wanted their half-baked crimelord dead.
contacts three-times removed and two-times dead later, sam finds the bank account that felix was supposed to have his reward wired to, and puts in exactly one month's worth of rent and the amount to buy precisely two cocktails in a shitty downtown bar in said account.
an attached message, in Portuguese: he who barks the loudest. no explanation; just an admission and an accusation. "you got to me, you motherfucker.") ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
(it's so often that his battlefields are populated by breathing corpses, by men and women who might as well already be dead, thrown into circumstances against their will or beyond their conviction.)
the dust does settle around them. mortar and frayed paint, desiccated wood. sam, wet hair sticking to the strong angles of his face, white and red still streaked over sun-blessed skin, finally pulls his sword from the clench of felix's body. innuendo intended. ]
Don't get me wrong. Would have loved to.
[ fuck him? kill him? sam doesn't draw the line in the sand, and leaves the delineation to what may or may not happen in the future; fate likes to play games, and he doesn't like to roll dice. what he knows now, with his blade now angled at the bob of felix's throat, is that he'd like to kiss him.
so. he does. the katana still a sweet threat by felix's jugular, and his knee touching the fractured ground to grant him access, with the curve of his spine, to felix's poison-stained mouth. the implied get out ignored, and with the knowledge that, a few yards away, samuel ortez may be watching from the other side of a scope.
he tastes iron and fire in felix's mouth. those furious eyes are fucking gorgeous, just the way he remembers them. ]
γΌRain check, kitty-cat.
[ their lips part (likely not without a bite or two or three). he's been distracted enough; time to finish what he came here to do. ]
no subject
he won't realize β now or later, until it's too late β that what sam leaves behind is far worse than anything he could ever take from him. a minuscule seed, buried in the upturned soil of felix's insides, finding root in his softest, ugliest parts and sprouting thorns. a disease. a fucking infection. he's going to fucking kill him, slowly, viciously. he's going to use his guts as garland. he's going to hook his thighs around his hips and beg him, tearstruck, to fuck him here, on top of bloodied carpet and splintered furniture, in full view of ortez's steady scope. he wants to be hollowed out and thoroughly emptied. he wants to feel fucking nothing.
this isn't right. get the fuck out of my head.
he chokes on a guttural, animal sound, throat seizing violently. by the time he thinks to go for the blade in his boot, sam is gone, out of reach, and felix is left to slash madly at empty air. oh fuck, he thinks feverishly, and rolls to his knees, crawling over dusty rubble for his jacket pinned under the busted remnants of a wooden wardrobe.
in his right pocket, a biofoam injection from home sweet home, to staunch the bleeding, stabbed directly into his gaping shoulder. he retches through the pain as his chest convulses on a wheezy sob. never gets any easier. never hurts any fucking less.
then, finally: ear-ringing silence, punctuated by felix's choppy breaths. it feels like hours, but ortez arrives to this decimated bedroom in record time, his savior framed in fading moonlight, dressed head-to-toe in black steel. he's greeted by a wild, screaming felix, who tries ( and fails ) to stab him no less than twenty times. why didn't you go for the fucking mark, you stupid fuck? you think i give a fuck what happens to me? you think i care? fuck you, locus. this shit is on you.
locus β all silent bulk, all frightening faceless patience β tanks the rogue waves of felix's rage with seasoned experience, unbreaking. until the world tilts under him, and blood loss really does catch up to him. distantly, felix registers ortez's grip on his wrist tightening into a bruising vise.
he slips under as he's hauled effortlessly over ortez's shoulder, limp as a rag doll, and drifts to a dark, warm place, to dream of sam. )
no subject
the hangover comes before the rush. felix wants to feel nothing, and sam is gliding from floor to fucking floor, suddenly in tune with everything and anything, his awareness like piano wire pulled just to the brink of breaking. broken lights, mirrors, the smell of exorbitantly expensive cologne mixed with rum and tequila, the weight of an unconscious criminal slung over his shoulder. the unnamed sniper doesn't come to put a hole in sam's fucking skull during the few minutes that sam spends in technicolor, and, as he's maneuvering through and out into the blissful stench of this foreign hellscape, sam tips his bloodied face to the moons hanging above him and shutters his eyes.
out of his fucking mind, he thinks.
what else is new?
(what happens next is: he trades his mark for six months' rent. interrogation isn't his style; he leaves that to an affable-looking sociopath with rubber gloves snapped up to his fucking elbow, and casually gets the name of whoever else in this latrine of a city would've wanted their half-baked crimelord dead.
contacts three-times removed and two-times dead later, sam finds the bank account that felix was supposed to have his reward wired to, and puts in exactly one month's worth of rent and the amount to buy precisely two cocktails in a shitty downtown bar in said account.
an attached message, in Portuguese: he who barks the loudest. no explanation; just an admission and an accusation. "you got to me, you motherfucker.") ]