It is a curious thing, that the lavender stallion’s excitation does not rankle him.
In many other situations, it would have. When he found sex abhorrent—a dull abdication of sense for pleasure (that was before he had found out the value in that plunge for himself)—and Kirin’s advances would have exhumed the whorish bones of his mother. It would remind him too much of her painted up lips and hip sway; of the way emptiness and malice wear lechery like a skin-tight dress. If it weren’t for the fatigue and the thin voice in his head making it hard for him to concentrate.
He cannot think.
He holds the other man’s eyes but she mutters in his ear, and he cannot help but flick them to the side. His lip wrinkles,
‘Have you no better company Pollock? Is that why I landed your victim? Where you jealous of my life? My family? My enjoyment of something that you will never possess?’ She cannot know how wrong she is; or he cannot accept how right. He had been jealous of pretty little Elve whose mother and sobbed and skinned her knee when she found her wayward little girl. He had been jealous of Lirren, the well-loved, starlit thing of promise and potential and privilege. Of Chessur and his upbringing…
What is left in him that may have wanted those things is under immense pressure, being pressed into a fossil of what might have been and what was denied for too long.
She does not make him jealous. She makes him angry and he suddenly needs room.
He takes a step back, away from the heat of Kirin’s breath and his arousal, ‘Giving? Well what a pleasant revelation, I am of the business of taking myself.’ He presses his eyes tight, his head pounding harder and harder as she raises her papery voice to meet and battle Kirin’s. “I am not surprised,” he mutters, his jaw clenching tight and stiff. They are similar in that way, they both know that well enough.
‘I hope you realize that you have just killed the Valley Kings lover.’
The corners of his lips curl upwards slightly, and he huffs air out his nostrils, heh.
He had not. Imagine that.
‘...for starters you. I'll take you, you look like someone to fill my needs, play my games quite nicely.’
He is walking a thin line. He must be used to taking easy little things. He must be used to playing games with pliable opponents. Pollock would run him through if he thought he had it in him, or if he thought it would be worth it, right now.
But his proposal is just interesting enough, “I do not think you know the value of treading carefully, Kirin. That might be a lesson worth learning, one day,” he must be the kind of man that self-destructs, “but I’ll play. I cannot say I am having much trouble managing to entertain myself on my own, but I am nothing if not willing to take on some extra playing time. I know I don’t need to warn you, but while we are on the subject, I’d be cautious. I am not saying I’ll play your games, necessarily. But that I’ll play with you. We’ll make our fun.”
In many other situations, it would have. When he found sex abhorrent—a dull abdication of sense for pleasure (that was before he had found out the value in that plunge for himself)—and Kirin’s advances would have exhumed the whorish bones of his mother. It would remind him too much of her painted up lips and hip sway; of the way emptiness and malice wear lechery like a skin-tight dress. If it weren’t for the fatigue and the thin voice in his head making it hard for him to concentrate.
He cannot think.
He holds the other man’s eyes but she mutters in his ear, and he cannot help but flick them to the side. His lip wrinkles,
‘Have you no better company Pollock? Is that why I landed your victim? Where you jealous of my life? My family? My enjoyment of something that you will never possess?’ She cannot know how wrong she is; or he cannot accept how right. He had been jealous of pretty little Elve whose mother and sobbed and skinned her knee when she found her wayward little girl. He had been jealous of Lirren, the well-loved, starlit thing of promise and potential and privilege. Of Chessur and his upbringing…
What is left in him that may have wanted those things is under immense pressure, being pressed into a fossil of what might have been and what was denied for too long.
She does not make him jealous. She makes him angry and he suddenly needs room.
He takes a step back, away from the heat of Kirin’s breath and his arousal, ‘Giving? Well what a pleasant revelation, I am of the business of taking myself.’ He presses his eyes tight, his head pounding harder and harder as she raises her papery voice to meet and battle Kirin’s. “I am not surprised,” he mutters, his jaw clenching tight and stiff. They are similar in that way, they both know that well enough.
‘I hope you realize that you have just killed the Valley Kings lover.’
The corners of his lips curl upwards slightly, and he huffs air out his nostrils, heh.
He had not. Imagine that.
‘...for starters you. I'll take you, you look like someone to fill my needs, play my games quite nicely.’
He is walking a thin line. He must be used to taking easy little things. He must be used to playing games with pliable opponents. Pollock would run him through if he thought he had it in him, or if he thought it would be worth it, right now.
But his proposal is just interesting enough, “I do not think you know the value of treading carefully, Kirin. That might be a lesson worth learning, one day,” he must be the kind of man that self-destructs, “but I’ll play. I cannot say I am having much trouble managing to entertain myself on my own, but I am nothing if not willing to take on some extra playing time. I know I don’t need to warn you, but while we are on the subject, I’d be cautious. I am not saying I’ll play your games, necessarily. But that I’ll play with you. We’ll make our fun.”
![[Image: kkN1kfc.png]](http://i.imgur.com/kkN1kfc.png)