Morgan scarcely entertains a thought. (Better not to risk jarring up against a fracture.) (Better not to risk tripping himself deeper into ire.)
(What the fuck. What the fuck has been going on.
How the fuck is this where they are. From hunting to this. From rarefied air and the aftersounds of prey to this obscenity of hackneyed drama.
And their son at its center.
Their son who was ready to fight Morgan. Their son who hurled himself at the door for a fucking Scarlett. It's as if Enri's looking for destruction.
It's the boy's right to struggle. (The boy's right to chase ruin if he wants, but fuck that, that won't be withstood, not here, not with that shitweasel of a man.) Better than to submit, limp.
...The boy isn't struggling now. (Lydia. It was Lydia's influence. And that word.))
Just now, it is the boy's place to be led quickly down the hall, Morgan noting figures around, not favoring any with a direct glance. Morgan attuned toward any signs of struggle from Enri or trouble from without.
No one stops them. Or, if someone tries - if that was an attendant attempting to flag Morgan down; if that was a guest pointing tentative in their direction - Morgan doesn't care. Morgan's focus is singular and fixed, and he doesn't stop moving, doesn't begin to loose his grip from the boy until he's made it several strides into their suite.
The door slammed shut behind him, or he slammed it. He realizes, curls his lip, and reaches back to jar the door open slightly. (Lydia will be close behind. Lydia must find the door open. Morgan won't shut her out, or have her find her path impeded.) All without moving his eyes from Enri. All without releasing the storm in his stance.
For a space of static-tingled breathing, Morgan doesn't speak.
For a time, Morgan lets his seething silence fill the room.
Then, a command, his voice imposing: "You're going to find another indulgence."
Meaning not this titillation. Not this man. Meaning there will be no mor of this obscenity.
no subject
Morgan scarcely entertains a thought. (Better not to risk jarring up against a fracture.) (Better not to risk tripping himself deeper into ire.)
(What the fuck. What the fuck has been going on.
How the fuck is this where they are. From hunting to this. From rarefied air and the aftersounds of prey to this obscenity of hackneyed drama.
And their son at its center.
Their son who was ready to fight Morgan. Their son who hurled himself at the door for a fucking Scarlett. It's as if Enri's looking for destruction.
It's the boy's right to struggle. (The boy's right to chase ruin if he wants, but fuck that, that won't be withstood, not here, not with that shitweasel of a man.) Better than to submit, limp.
...The boy isn't struggling now. (Lydia. It was Lydia's influence. And that word.))
Just now, it is the boy's place to be led quickly down the hall, Morgan noting figures around, not favoring any with a direct glance. Morgan attuned toward any signs of struggle from Enri or trouble from without.
No one stops them. Or, if someone tries - if that was an attendant attempting to flag Morgan down; if that was a guest pointing tentative in their direction - Morgan doesn't care. Morgan's focus is singular and fixed, and he doesn't stop moving, doesn't begin to loose his grip from the boy until he's made it several strides into their suite.
The door slammed shut behind him, or he slammed it. He realizes, curls his lip, and reaches back to jar the door open slightly. (Lydia will be close behind. Lydia must find the door open. Morgan won't shut her out, or have her find her path impeded.) All without moving his eyes from Enri. All without releasing the storm in his stance.
For a space of static-tingled breathing, Morgan doesn't speak.
For a time, Morgan lets his seething silence fill the room.
Then, a command, his voice imposing: "You're going to find another indulgence."
Meaning not this titillation. Not this man. Meaning there will be no mor of this obscenity.