From the airport to the cab; from the cab to Darius fucking can’t keep his glomming hands to his putrid fucking self fucking Scarlett’s fucking door.
Morgan seething. Morgan blank beyond livid eyes. Morgan subtly disheveled, after the plane and after the furious ride to the hotel. Morgan held like a searing knife, ready to ruin.
He hadn’t wanted to come to this asinine excuse for a wedding in this first fucking place. Waverly doesn’t merit the support. The miserable shitstains gathering don’t mean a thing. Better to have remained in the wilderness with Lydia. Better to have extended their trip, and avoided this work of overdressed nonsense.
—Or not.
Or not, because there’s been a complication.
A mistake.
Because someone’s got to burn this mistake and all its fucking traces to the ground.
What the fuck, what the fuck was Custis thinking, was Alice thinking, or was it their wastrel of a fucking brother that brought this into being, a supposition that fucking fits, because Treavor’s got a history of just this kind of fuck-ups and Treavor was supposed to watch the boy, and of course it’d be the waste of fucking space’s doing, and of all the fucking people for Enri to take up with—
Morgan is furious.
Of course he’s fucking furious, hearing where the boy (Enri) (their son) has gone. (Been taken? Been lured? Morgan will rip the bastard’s throat out.) Morgan scarcely notices anyone as he passes through the hotel. Doesn’t spare a look to half-familiar faces or attendants or worried-looking strangers. He has his goal; nothing beyond matters.
The boy can’t stay there.
And Morgan will rend Scarlett readily if the shitweasel shows a single fucking hair of himself.
He pounds on the door upon arriving, three heavy knocks, sharp, his voice a bellowed command: “Enri!”
If there’s no response he’ll break the fucking thing down, and never mind who’s watching.
no subject
Morgan seething. Morgan blank beyond livid eyes. Morgan subtly disheveled, after the plane and after the furious ride to the hotel. Morgan held like a searing knife, ready to ruin.
He hadn’t wanted to come to this asinine excuse for a wedding in this first fucking place. Waverly doesn’t merit the support. The miserable shitstains gathering don’t mean a thing. Better to have remained in the wilderness with Lydia. Better to have extended their trip, and avoided this work of overdressed nonsense.
—Or not.
Or not, because there’s been a complication.
A mistake.
Because someone’s got to burn this mistake and all its fucking traces to the ground.
What the fuck, what the fuck was Custis thinking, was Alice thinking, or was it their wastrel of a fucking brother that brought this into being, a supposition that fucking fits, because Treavor’s got a history of just this kind of fuck-ups and Treavor was supposed to watch the boy, and of course it’d be the waste of fucking space’s doing, and of all the fucking people for Enri to take up with—
Morgan is furious.
Of course he’s fucking furious, hearing where the boy (Enri) (their son) has gone. (Been taken? Been lured? Morgan will rip the bastard’s throat out.) Morgan scarcely notices anyone as he passes through the hotel. Doesn’t spare a look to half-familiar faces or attendants or worried-looking strangers. He has his goal; nothing beyond matters.
The boy can’t stay there.
And Morgan will rend Scarlett readily if the shitweasel shows a single fucking hair of himself.
He pounds on the door upon arriving, three heavy knocks, sharp, his voice a bellowed command: “Enri!”
If there’s no response he’ll break the fucking thing down, and never mind who’s watching.