Koname-Shokki

Japan, '86 ~ Freddie was not having a good morning. For one, he'd lost his shoes. Well, misplaced them, obviously, for they couldn't have simply walked off on their own, now, could they? Freddie padded barefoot around the bedroom in abject frustration, cursing under his breath all the while. He'd lost - misplaced - his shirt, too. All of his shirts, actually. How was that even bloody possible?! He'd had to settle for one of Jim's shirts, instead: a lightweight buttondown that fit a size too large on Freddie's slight frame. At least that briefcase hadn't vanished into thin air! Huffing in vexation, Freddie threw up his hands and abandoned

Just when Freddie thought he'd gotten himself under control, a new heartbeat snared his attention. He perked up, ears pricked toward the sound, a fast drumbeat under the patter of the rain, just outside the house. A trespasser? Did it matter? Easy prey-- It's Phoebe, for fuck's sake! Reason warred with lust in Freddie's frazzled mind; his vision tunneled, his own heartbeat dominating his focus to a moment, loud and slow and desperate. Damnit, he needed bl-- No, he needed Phoebe. Phoebe's blood? No, Phoebe was here to help. Help with what? Help with blood? No. Wait. What? "Phoebe's here," Freddie managed to croak out, his throat parched and

Despite Freddie's reluctance to bring anyone else into this absolute clusterfuck of a situation, eventually he conceded to Jim's insistence that they call Phoebe for help. He had to admit, Jim had a point: fresh insight and a new perspective certainly wouldn't be remiss. Of course, deep down, Freddie knew he could trust Phoebe with his life, and certainly with the knowledge of this...condition of his. But he couldn't help the knots of trepidation in his gut. He didn't want anyone to see him like this, with these awful ears and horrible fangs... Once Jim left the room, Freddie let out a dreary sigh and sank down on the couch, propping his el

Freddie could barely hear anything over the hammer of his pulse in his ears as Jim rushed him inside. He was only vaguely aware of Jim asking him a million questions, but the words jumbled into an incoherent mess every time Freddie tried to focus. All he could hear was his heartbeat. Shouldn't it have been racing? The numb sort of panic gripping his chest certainly seemed like it should've been accompanied by the racing gallop of his heart against his ribs. But it wasn't. His pulse trudged through his veins, almost like that was as fast as it could go. A deep, steady kuh-thunk kuh-thunk kuh-thunk. And it was driving Freddie mad. Another di

April, 1978 Freddie was in heaven. Well, perhaps being hemmed in on all sides by half-drunk, half-drugged revelers, his senses overwhelmed by the acrid aroma of sweaty leather and the blinding strobe of neon laser lights, was more like being in hell than heaven. Either way, as soon as he laid eyes upon that biker, leaping onto the bar like a sultry, leatherclad lion, baring his teeth from the shadow of his magnificent moustache and showing off as much skin as his glossy black jacket would allow, Freddie knew he was looking upon something divine. "Y'sure y'don't want any o' this, Freddie?" came Paul's lilting voice from somewhere to Freddi