who: @mangemaw . ♡
where: The Ports .
some nights, pacing the long halls of the house, césar spends the hours thinking. in between searching for the sound of matteo’s breathing and the creaks in the floorboard that would indicate the old man trying some bullshit- césar takes hours in his mind, walking a loop of punishment with a thorn in his paw. over, and over, and over. he thinks about papá, he thinks about matteo, he thinks about avi. sometimes, he thinks about harford. but, mostly, he thinks about warwick. the massacre. the rejection. the murder. the conclave. and, the thing is, césar was just drunk enough to lose pieces of the memory of that night, and the wolf is still hungry for blood. and the man- the man is violent.
it’s somewhere in the odd hours of the night that césar decides he’s done babysitting. and, anyway, when’s the last time he’s really fucked up? he thinks he’s due for it, he’s been well behaved. césar doesn’t crave reward, nor punishment. he’s just hungry. he’s just angry. he goes to the water, closer than he had during the hurricane, to the ports.
“ oh, yui-girl … ” if she’s not here, césar knows he’ll see her soon. he can smell other bodies, hear other voices, small and whispered between the shipping containers, jumping around the metal walls. “ sea una buena vecina, señorita rogers. i’ve come for a little visit. ”
