#*writing.

❝ don't piss me off ࣭ ❞ viscera drips from moonlit fangs, equal scraps of blood, muscle and skin between ruby lips. umber of gaze flares; pale, and lowly, contrasted against natural occults. though, his bite appears no less dangerous, from the crumbled heap at predator's feet. he unwinds, straightening to full height with glance over shoulder.

❝ i can smell you ࣭ ❞ eyes in direction of unwanted company, sneer revealing more crimson teeth. ❝ fuck off, or come out ࣭ ❞

♱ OPEN STARTER !!

SOMETIME AGO ; the news veins its way down to him  bludgeoning shock in to the very core of himself.   he’d left the old grounds he and katsuya called home both on the loss of him and the sense that his days at the station were tying him to requirements  he’d not needed. in being a PI he knew that he could service a wider range of people before the law would even care to consider them worthy. and so when mike does end up calling him to inform him off katsuya’s death he is outside of the feelings of what they had and it takes him a moment to remember exactly who and what katsuya was. you see it had been said to him that he’d be left alone, that the damage of losing katsuya would undo him and in a sense it did. no matter how much he had loved thomas he couldn’t hold on because he felt as though he wasn’t worth the time, wasn’t good enough because katsuya had just left. there were no words, no time for understanding and it was at that moment he had cut the seams of hope and jumped into the stomach of self-loathing ,  both on the circumstance that the past actions he had wanted sealed had been opened and then left to plague him by katsuya and the fact that he had hardly cared to call or consider him anything but a past memory.  he sits on his bed  feeling as though he was lodged in the mouth of a nightmare  and that any moment now someone  would call and say it was a prank but when he looks it up he finds the obituary and he breaks down sobbing.  there are mentions of a kidnapping of abuse , and of rape. his stomach turns over on itself and he runs to vomit, how long had katsuya braved the agony before it ended him? Why was it that they had to pull apart so fully he couldnt have gauged any sense of his fear against himself? he is tied in the arms of guilt, and all he can think of is how he had judged him, how he had thought to hold on to him when it was better for him to go on, and he knew that he could have called him and not let his memory become a selfish ridding. he sits there with his fingers grasping against his neck  as though if he tore it open the time they did have would come back. that everything he had sealed in side would come out and give him a sense of peace.  he cries  and cries until  fatigue puts him to sleep.

She’s leaving the office a little early -- Karen does that now, allows herself stolen moments to breathe. Always caught on the lip of a breaking story or this close to empirical evidence of a client’s innocence. She’s happy -- or she’s distracted, but sometimes they look the same.

Today though. Today it looks like a hand to her mouth in surprise while the other shakes, so she shoves it deep into the pocket of her coat and looks at the sky to blink back her tears.

She’s not going to cry for him any more.

“Hey,” Frank’s voice is warm, rough in that way that’s exclusively his and however angry she wants to be, the only thing that hits her is a wave of relief. He’s leaning against the hood of her car, Karen crosses her arm and regards him coolly, passively; like she isn’t about to catch him in a crushing hug.

Instead, Karen sniffs, toes a crack in the cement, and actively avoids his gaze (won’t be able to leave it, if she gets caught), “What’s that?” She lifts her chin to vaguely gesture at the brown paper bag at his side. Frank smiles and Christ, she’ll really never get tired of seeing the soldier at ease.

“I uh,” he ducks his head, scrubs at the back of his neck with blunt nails and seems to be steeling himself before opening the bag. Another potted rose, but this one is a gradient of yellow, tipped in red. She’s not a florist and doesn’t possess any amount of knowledge on what that means, but the white ones (that she’d miraculously managed to keep alive) made her heart sink.

These, make it race.

❝ fuck .ᐟ ❞ spat into the cool of late evening, almost midnight. ❝ can you believe that asshole ? ❞ followed by dull jangle of loose bracelets encircling her wrists, splendid silver against bronze skin. brisk pace winds down as they reach a lamp’s halo illuminating nearby street corner. femme’s side eye glares briefly at the club they’d just been thrown from a block down, huff escaping shimmery lips.

❝ so much for a fun night out . 'm sorry, babes . ❞ apologetic gaze is shot in their direction now, akin to scolded puppy dog. streaks of blood dot her lower lip, cut from own fangs in attempt to soothe temper. things would’ve spiraled if she’d actually had hands raised against her, but thankfully, the friend she’d made was all talk.

and had gotten way too close to her date, for wolf’s comfort. ever heard of personal space, dipshit?

❝ thanks for calming me down . ❞ it wasn’t fair cedes had let her beast take control of their evening. she owes them. ❝ what d'ya feel up to ? happy to treat you, if you're not ready to call it a night ? ❞ please don’t be …

♱ OPEN STARTER !!