What's Mine is Mine
“You touch me, Proko, and I’ll kill you.”
It’s a hollow threat, Prokopenko knows, but he flinches just the same. It takes a massive effort to keep from stepping away. He doesn’t like it when K gets like this. Twisting his fingers, nervously biting at his lower lip, he asks, softly, “You really that angry?”
Kavinsky’s glare could cut glass, dark and fierce and furious. Without his sunglasses, K is a beast.
Fighting back a rather pleasant shiver, knowing it’s a risk, Proko moves in to straddle Kavinsky’s hips, threading his fingers into dark hair. Brushing his lips against K’s by way of apology, Proko murmurs, soft and sweet, “Sorry, baby.”
“Don’t baby me.” It comes as a hiss, the warning of a snake before it bites you.
“Don’t sound so pissy.” Pissy is an understatement, Jiang knows. Seated on the opposite arm of the sofa, he nurses his busted lip, aware of the fact that he’s got blood dripping down his chin. He licks a bit of it away; The metallic taste of it is familiar and grounding. It’s not the first time K’s hit him, though this time was definitely deserved. The entire pack knows how possessive Kavinsky is when it comes to Prokopenko. “If you paid attention to him, he wouldn’t have to come running to me.”
Hands too tight at Proko’s bare hips, digging blue-violet bruises into golden skin, K snarls, “Didn’t ask you.”
“Don’t have to ask.” Jiang holds the concerned look Prokopenko shoots at him for a few seconds before he meets Kavinsky’s dark, dark eyes, steeling himself. “It’s obvious.”
Really, it is, but there’s no way in Hell K is going to admit that. Jiang and Proko are both fully aware of it. “You see this?” This proves to be Proko’s hand, and Kavinsky gives it a squeeze as indication, thumbing at the other boy’s knuckles. It’s strangely comforting for the both of them. “This is mine.”
Eyes narrowing, Jiang hisses out, “He isn’t a thing, K.”
Leaning in to rest his forehead against Kavinsky’s shoulder, his eyes still on Jiang’s, Proko sighs, “Yes, I am.”
Nodding, Kavinsky agrees, with a poor imitation of Proko’s lilting accent, “Yes, he is.” Tangling one hand into sandy-blonde locks, he drags Proko closer, mouthing along the side of his neck. “Dream thing.”
Proko whimpers at that, though it’s unclear whether it’s in response to the words, or to the flutter of chapped lips along sensitive skin. His eyes are still on Jiang’s, barely-blue on mirror-black.
“You oughta know by now,” Kavinsky says to Jiang between kisses, eyes rapidly darkening, “that I don’t like sharing my things.”