you are mine ( closed );

He's in his studio — because of course he is, one never knows precisely when the spark of an idea will ignite — sketching on the first page of a brand new sketchbook when he hears a familiar shuffling ( not to mention smelling the familiar scent of home and mine ), and he can't help the slow spread of a smile across the line of his mouth as he begins unfolding himself to meet Haru halfway.

That smile stops short when he realizes there is something very, very different about the smell of him. Something familiar still, but acrid in a way that makes his nose wrinkle, and he knows that scent, too, more than he cares to admit. It brings the fine hairs at the back of his neck to standing, bristling, and his eyes are narrowed to mere slits by the time the younger finally stands in front of him.

"You're bleeding," is all he says at first, inked fingers coming up to frame either side of a pale face, thumbs pressing in just beneath the edge of his jaw. He tips his face to one side, and then the other, fingertips now trailing over the slope of that long, pretty neck until he can tug at a shirt collar that already looks as if it's been stretched out, and when he glimpses the first drying stain of red, his vision blurs with the beginnings of a rage he isn't sure he'll be able to contain.

There, at the junction of neck and shoulder, is a bite; small, the marks of teeth left behind are dull, barely enough to have broken the surface at all but there is still the pooling of blood in those indents, already clotting into a tacky sort of stickiness that he wants to lick away. If only to cover the scent, the taste of her.

He turns his gaze back up to those pretty eyes, his own hardened, the grip on either side of Haru's neck perhaps a bit too tight. "What did she do to you?"