— crimson.

song minkwang. 29. ghoul. dsem convict/hunter.

[princerubins]

🙈

[odminsung]

liar.

[odminsung]

[ obsmin ]

hyerin watches, hand hovering beneath the bottle as minkwang drinks from it, as if he’d drop it in his sleepy state. he doesn’t know - minkwang’s in awful condition, but hyerin doesn’t know what that means for someone used to vampiric healing, who’s not used to being stuffed full of chemicals and antibiotics till those alone could make a grown man sick. 

“not really.”

it’s a lie, he’s been here every possible moment he could, the thought of minkwang alone in this hospital room, frail and vulnerable, plaguing his thoughts. just a little, at the back of his mind, he’d wanted to be there when minkwang woke up, but he can’t quite put his finger on why. he’s not ready to think about that yet.

“you’ve been out for three days. ‘got fucked up real bad.”

hyerin doesn’t want to explain it, nor does he want to talk at all. his throat is too tight, eyes burning the longer he stares at his brother. he doesn’t know how to speak to him without revealing his own pain or saying that he’s been worried sick, that he can’t eat, that the thought that minkwang might be screwed over by this for the rest of his life because of what hyerin made him do makes him want to die.

(the doctor says its nothing that serious, that minkwang will be fine, but it changes nothing. it’s still hyerin’s fault.)

there’s a knock at the door, and hyerin sits up, hand tightening around minkwang’s.  a nurse comes in, note board in hand as she checks minkwang’s vitals. hyerin falls silent, tuning out the conversation as he tries to collect himself, breathing deeply to calm his racing heart. 

[obsmin-blog]

feeling faint, like he’s been watered down---this is an unusual feeling, and minkwang doesn’t like it at all. he’s always been strong in body if nothing else, durable even before his body was altered to be moreso than a human should be; this moment exists as an an ugly contrast to that. water’s good for the throat but it doesn’t correct the lack of anything substantial in his body, nor the fuzzy-headed feeling of his magic prodding at him.

he just nods at hyerin’s answer, doesn’t question it even if it seems flimsy, too---as long as she’s not bothered, he won’t pry any further. three days is a long time; it explains a few things. an explanation doesn’t make him feel better, though.

minkwang grimaces, glancing at the floor again---why is it that he has to be so useless, worrying hyerin even though she’d been just as well spiting him before? fighting is the one thing he’s supposed to be competent with; everything else has always been hard, he gave up on it so long ago that he doesn’t even remember doing it.

he perks up when the nurse comes in, checking him over; he assumes they know that he’s not all human, because otherwise---otherwise, would he have ended up that much worse off? minkwang isn’t meant to think about things---not heavy things, not like this, not constantly. it’s killing him.

he grunts his responses, lucid but feeling a bit faint---the nurse says that’s to be expected, and he believes it. he’s lucky, something like that, that the damage wasn’t irreparable; he doesn’t really feel lucky.

the nurse leaves soon enough, and the heavy silence returns---and with it, the oppressively heavy thoughts within minkwang’s skull. the dissonance is too strong---hyerin worrying, him falling apart. he’s always been stoic and static---it clicks rather suddenly just how little he understands his own sister. he doesn’t understand why she’s worried now, when she’s been so spiteful with him since he came back---he doesn’t even know if he understands why she’s like that, now that the context is distant, too, and he’s not good at solving puzzles.

“i’ll be okay,” he says as he looks at hyerin, genuinely meaning it even though he barely knows the meaning of okay at this point, “i can heal from a lot of things.” there’s an experiential knowledge to the way he phrases it, but he doesn’t even realize that it shows. “you don’t have to worry.”

[jinhwanxobs]

worn and rusted.

@obsmin

jinhwan’s wandering around the central district again today; he keeps finding himself in his old haunts a lot lately. it’s a bit strange now of all times – with all the unrest you’d think he’d be drawn away from the central most district but it somehow seems quieter around there than near home. maybe it’s an overwhelming need to keep things normal there, or the shadow of dsem looming overhead; it’s a peace nonetheless, even in the crowds and always busy streets.

the monotony of the crowd is broken up today by a splash of bold red. for some reason the color catches his eyes – it’s someone walking ahead, their hair dyed a near obnoxious shade of it. his lip curls; the color reminds him of someone he hasn’t thought about in a while. from this angle they almost even look like – –wait, does he recognize them? 

isn’t that… minkwang hyung?!

he’s with a few others; there’s something hardened about the guys around him and none of them are familiar, but he’s more convinced the harder he looks.

jinhwan’s then aware he’s staring in that direction and redirects his gaze, meandering in the square with his eyes lowered and hands pushed into the pockets of his jacket. his heart is racing since… no one jinhwan knows has heard from minkwang or eunhyuk in a very long time. not since eunhyuk disappeared and minkwang followed soon after.

and when a hunter goes missing… well, you don’t really expect them to reappear. not that line of work. (witches, in his experience, for that matter too… but not always for the same reasons. it’s not something jinhwan in particular likes to think about.) 

part of jinhwan wonders if that’s not really minkwang; maybe this is some kind of doppelganger in the crowd – or someone that happens to look like him? but if not his bright hair and his stature, the bold scarring across his skin is unmistakable even at a glance. there’s a hundred questions in his mind, some of which are already bubbling at his tongue, as he knows it’s likely the only person who can answer them is minkwang – if that is indeed him. others itch at him he hardly dares even mentally voice.

now, stealth is not jinhwan’s strong suit; he’s a tall guy, after all, and wearing a hoodie when it’s hot like now tends to draw eyes to you instead of away, and he’s got no sort of training or natural ability in that regard anyway. he’s no idea if he’s actually been noticed as well but he keeps his distance to be safe and watches the red head of hair out of the corner of his eye. his vague wandering carries him in that direction for a few minutes while he pulls out his phone and taps at the screen idly, waiting for an opportunity that he’s on his own.

he doesn’t wait long before the others head off – in the direction of the nearby dsem building, no less, jinhwan notes curiously – and jinhwan picks up the pace.

“minkwang hyung –!” he says when he’s close enough to be heard without drawing attention to them both.

when the red haired man turns around he steps closer with much less caution, but keeps himself from getting right in the other’s space.

“it really is you, isn’t it? you… you’re alive..?”

he almost says “okay,” but he somehow suspects that might not be the case.

[obsmin-blog]

minkwang is a social creature, in one way---in that he thrives on company and prefers it, even if he is terrible at what most people would call “socializing” by most accounts. these days, he’s not close to much of anyone, though; there’s a hole there, the obvious absence of one person in particular, and it’s pushed a distance between minkwang and the rest of the world, it seems. between himself and the people he used to call comrades is a wall that he erected himself, though he dislikes it---his pride won’t let him show his face to those people, not as he is, downtrodden and damaged as he is, he doesn’t want to worry them.

it’s all excuses. it’s inevitable that he can’t avoid his past forever.

these people feel like strangers, too, even if he’s working alongside them, even if they’re laughing a bit and trying to take a moment’s lightness out of their rather gruesome and trying kind of work. even if he offers a smirk every now and again he can’t bring himself to speak; they should be comrades, too, and yet minkwang doesn’t feel like he belongs at all. that feeling’s been eating away at him for months, and maybe it won’t ever quite stop; he doesn’t know.

something feels strange, though---almost like someone is watching him. he’s not an expert with detection---he’s more the type to get thrown into the fray and do what he has to do, or just stand around and look intimidating---but something’s weird. minkwang tries not to let it get to him; the central district is full of people, after all, and he gets stared at often enough that it’d probably be more unusual if no one had their eyes on him. (if it bothered him, wouldn’t it be easier to just let his hair grow in natural, put on some sleeves to cover his wards?)

it’s only after the other hunters with him begin to head off, leaving minkwang briefly lost in thought again, that the odd feeling comes to a head---he startles a bit at the voice calling to him, the way it calls out, as much so.

he turns his head first, then quickly rotates the rest of his body to match---because it seems so strange to see a familiar face now, here, ever, really. the shock his written all over his face and he’s left jarred, eyes wide, for just a moment. minkwang shifts, rolling his shoulders and shoving his hands in his pockets---something’s defensive about the tension in his form.

“jinhwan-ah,” saying the name feels the same kind of strange, distant and familiar at the same time, but too bitter to be considered nostalgic. he looks down first, shifting his weight to this other foot---then he laughs, though it’s a bit dry. “i guess i am,” he says, tone reluctant and honestly unsure rather than a playful statement of the obvious.

minkwang looks up, head tilted slightly to the side and expression neutralized, though his brows remain high in interest. he glances over to the co-workers he’d been with before, who’re now looking his way inquisitively from several paces away, and lazily waves him off---he’ll catch up later. (he notes silently that jinhwan is as... utterly recognizable as ever, if not perhaps moreso than before.)

“you been well?”

[obsjeongguk-blog]

« beneath the mask. »

@obsmin !

With the recent turn of events, DSEM was the last place which Jeongguk frequented. Returning to the very place that took the lives of the three most important people in his life was out of the question for several days. He needed time to put his thoughts into order, to cope with the recent loss. Truth be told, he had barely taken the time to head out of his apartment, save for two or three outings. However, at the end of the day, all the time spent away amounted to nothing; denying the inevitable only made matters worse.

As much as Jeongguk denied it, there was still a reason for him to head back. It had nothing to do with being responsible towards duty or serving faithfully under the organization, rather it was a matter of moral duty. If nothing else, there was someone within DSEM that he cared for (that is something which would never be openly admitted, especially not to the person in question) and that’s what had him showing up at the headquarters.

This is a hunt of a different kind; a search, not only for a person but for a purpose.

The confidence which Jeongguk exudes is present, even if only as a facade to mask how vulnerable he feels. Stepping inside the building doesn’t spare him of a couple of questions, most which he dodges giving proper answers to; one more scolding to add to the others doesn’t matter, he’s done with this place anyway. Once he’s allowed to advance further into the building, he crossed through it with one destination in mind: the training rooms; the place in which he and Minkwang met for the very first time. Jeongguk had been a mess then, too - different from how he is now, or perhaps not.

He’s trying to tell himself it’s different this time around, but it isn’t.

The door is pushed open with more force than intended, drawing unsolicited attention towards Jeongguk as he entered the training room. A few people were there, but his object of interest was nowhere in sight. Suffice to say, the lack of Minkwang’s presence makes Jeongguk’s heart sink; there’s no sense of longing present, but he’s met with disappointment nonetheless. Without an apology offered, he exits the training room and heads back out into the hallway, continuing his search. It wouldn’t be long before it would pay of anyway, or so he hoped.

[obsmin-blog]

Something isn’t right about this all.

Minkwang is a person of intuition, even though his is blunt and unclear---ill-defined, but often accurate. So his intuition says that it doesn’t make any damn sense that DSEM put on such a show, with that fae; it’s all wrong, nonsensical, if he’s to be honest. DSEM’s reasons are as blunt and simple as his; this wasn’t that. Misguided though he finds the organization as a whole, in the end, peace by way of blood is the mantra by which hunters survive---at least, any of them that aren’t just in it for flimsy revenge, or just needing some way to get the ugly rage out of their bodies.

Maybe Minkwang is a bit of that last thing, too---someone fighting for the sake of getting the ugliness out of his system, the aggressive physicality that’s so bred into his veins that he’s not sure if it could ever truly be extracted. But even if that’s true, no way he thinks about it makes it make sense to make such a show out of killing a woman who never outright threatened humanity. Does he just not understand the finer points of psychological manipulation? That’s true, yes, but is it necessary? It doesn’t add up.

Someone pushed for it to happen---that conclusion makes way more sense. It’s not one Minkwang came to on his own, but one he overheard, and conspiratorial as it is, he has to agree.

Even if he agrees with that, though, and thinks in the end, DSEM isn’t the enemy---just too strict, full of people who were “recruited” on the fleeting flames of grief and vengeance, ugly, ugly things which he’s been filled with (and is still fighting, even if the embers no longer glow and everything is cold and quiet inside him)---he doesn’t stay here because he agrees with them, either. He stays because he needs structure and control, though he won’t admit the extent of that---he stays because he’s afraid of what’ll happen if someone isn’t keeping him pulled on a tight leash to be sure he doesn’t spiral and fall into something far worse.

And for the people like him, the people who can bury their morality and do what they’re told, it’s fine. (It’s fine even if he ends up destroying himself through it; it’s better than losing himself again.) Not everyone is like that. (Maybe he shouldn’t be, either.) Minkwang understands that intuitively, too.

So here he is, alone with his musings---it happens a lot, these days, and it wears him thin, because it’s just not like him. The hallway is quiet during such an off hour and he rolls a glass bottle filled with red liquid in his palm, staring at it---too many emotions conflicting with each other in his expression and rendering it dull. He doesn’t want to be here and doesn’t want to go home---he doesn’t want to look anyone in the eye. That feeling, too, is wearing him thin.

Minkwang’s gaze cuts upward at the sound of footsteps, but only after they seem near enough to be relevant---what he finds makes his eyebrows hike up a bit more, a level of actual alertness entering his expression. At the least, Jeongguk is someone he doesn’t mind seeing.

“What’s the matter, kid?” Minkwang wonders in something just off of monotone; something isn’t right, he knows that little, and so he’s eloquent as ever with introductions.

[obsxeunae-blog]

─ reconfigure.

[obsmin-blog]

obsxeunae

she continues scrubbing him down for far longer than necessary.

there’s a thin line between necessary excessive, and she’s well aware of that ─ it just remains unaddressed. getting someone that’s dripping wet dry enough so they can function normally is far easier than discussion. focusing on every small detail, every minor distraction that she possibly could ─ is it wrong, knowing that each of her actions hold such a purpose, and yet she refuses to put it to an end, regardless? perhaps it is; perhaps it’s more painful like this, not for one but both of them ─ perhaps, this way, she’s doing more harm than good.

her actions slow, hands still in circling in undefined patterns atop minkwang’s head and the towel still in place. her focus is on nothing; her eyes may stare at the cotton makings of the cloth but her attention is far elsewhere, in some indistinct bubble of her own thoughts ─ poorly translated to reflect upon her physical form. the break in silence isn’t what startles her nor is it what sends her into a moment of muddled uncertainty. 

she supposes that being ‘lost’ is something like this; a fog that envelops each movement, obscures simple trails of thought, unable to connect one to the next. a dissonance between the reality of now and the reality of the past ─ the uncertainty that brews over not knowing where to start. that feeling of knowing things that you shouldn’t, but not knowing what to do with that information.

“he’s dead,” isn’t what she means to say, she thinks; even those words seem too distant before she blinks slowly, shifts in place to bring herself out of her own complicated mental web. 

it’s not what she means to say, but it’s not it’s not as though she’d never meant to say it. hiding something like that ─ knowing that it was one of the only things that couldn’t be avoided ─ could never work out for someone like her. she could count the number of times she’d mention eunhyuk’s passing on a single hand, having kept the confirmation to herself with no particular feelings towards sharing them with another ─ but if there were a single presence that deserved to know, then minkwang would almost certainly be one to surpass even that.

(despite that there’s something in the way minkwang’s colors have been all this time ─ that dull hue that stands separate from the strange sharpness of his aura ─ that says something. what that something is, however, is what she can’t put her finger on no matter how long she stares into the space around him.) 

when it comes to knowing what to classify as “strange”---minkwang is not adept, in that. what’s a normal length for a silence, a normal extent to need to busy one’s hands, a normal level of how to dry someone off from the rain---it all rather goes over his head. he doesn’t know any differently; he knows that he’s missing something, but that feeling is so constant that he never knows when it’s worth addressing, and so he never does, not even at its most extreme point.

(he worries about her, but he doesn’t know how to express that either.)

the pause between his mumbling and her speaking hangs heavy, but he can’t grasp it long enough to resolve it into something meaningful---when she speaks he mentally stumbles, but with a thick tongue and lame tone he still answers: “i know.”

(he saw it with his own eyes, but that doesn’t need to be said.)

he pauses for a second, piecing words together from the wavering pool of his mind; he looks at his hands, disconnected. “i know, i---tried, but instead---” he’s not capable of being anything but honest, vague only in the sense of missing words as he all but babbles; his hands fall to his sides and ball into fists, shoulders tightening. “---i was---i got---i’m a ghoul,” he finally says, the word seeming to grip his lungs more tightly than usual---he doesn’t always like talking about it, but he thinks she deserves to know.

“i’m sorry,” he says again, as if he’s broken---he is, in a way, still not looking at eunae directly. “i didn’t---i should’ve listened---i got ahead of myself, and this...” he finally looks up at her, uneasy.

“i’m glad you’re safe,” there’s something foul about saying that---about this feeling he has toward eunae, which seems so much like the bond with another person he left behind in a far more intentional (though not significantly less stupid, probably) way, and it leaves a twisting feeling in minkwang’s abdomen which he lacks the words to describe or address. there are too many emotions built up inside of him; he’s never been good with these kinds of things.

[obsmin-blog]

need to know.

[obsmin-blog]

obsdongwoo

He’s talking with a hunter?

“I know plenty of stuff,” he says. “It’s just not all about vampires and werewolves.” Somehow, the tone he inflicts upon his words makes them sound like he’s trying to boast. Ignorance – especially ignorance bordering on sheer stupidity – is nothing to be proud of. He doesn’t know why he’s bragging, why he’s standing straighter, or why he quickens his pace to be one step ahead of Minkwang. 

Perhaps, it’s an unrefined attempt to protect himself or even a challenge to the other’s clear authority. Wolves are known to both make themselves appear larger when threatened and assert their dominance to determine the alpha. Which one is he trying to do? Dongwoo isn’t aware that this can be considered a “werewolf thing” – or even a thing at all. What he knows is that he hasn’t feigned this much bravado since he was a kindergartner trying to impress his big sister. He shoots a curious, albeit tentative glance to Minkwang for a reaction. 

It would do the werewolf well to find a seasoned leader that’ll give him a kick in the ass when necessary. But until that distant day, he’ll be getting his supernatural crash course from a ghoul instead. 

Dongwoo skips introducing himself, but not out of forgetfulness. Why did he do that? Why is he acting this way? What’s wrong with him? He was all smiles and easygoing mere seconds ago. It’s like the minute Minkwang claimed to be a hunter, a predator to the predators, that switch inside him flicked on. “You’re not going to…” he says, trailing off.

Lead me into a trap? Cut my head clean off? Shoot me when I’m not looking?

None of those would help his paper-thin, fake bravado stay in tact. It’s not like a hunter would give him a warning before reaching for the silver bullets. Dongwoo decides that if he gets those tingling feelings in his gut, a brand of intuition closer to passive precognition, that he’ll make a run for it. His typically splintered attention span is solid, gaze sharpening like his escape plan if things are to turn sour. 

Maybe he isn’t totally helpless after all.

But then, the sound of a raccoon rustling through garbage shatters his attention span into a thousand pieces. He makes a face and tries really, really hard not to run after it – right into a truck speeding down the road.

Nah, he’ll totally die on his own.

Minkwang doesn’t really intend to sound condescending---most people wouldn’t, especially not people like Minkwang who know good and well that they’re not the sharpest tool in the box by any standard. But if there’s one thing Minkwang does know, it’s how to stay alive under bad odds, and that’s something this werewolf kid probably needs to have, too.

He’s nonchalant about it, though, not much reacting to the way the other’s posture shifts, the way he seems to puff out his chest---maybe in fair part because Minkwang isn’t the most observant person in the world when it comes to other people, either. There’s no sense registering the were as a threat unless he’s being aggressive---though there’s definitely something different in the air now, which Minkwang could’ve predicted happening reasonably enough when he exposed his occupation.

But it just didn’t seem fair not to say it, either.

“Nah,” he says as a reply, even though the kid doesn’t finish his sentence; “Why’d I tell you that if I plan on hunting you?” And it’s true; Minkwang simply doesn’t believe in hurting innocents, supernatural or not. He finally raises a quizzical brow, unaware or perhaps uncaring of the disaster that is his grammar, at the werewolf at about the same time that he suddenly gets distracted by who-knows-what. Minkwang’s hearing isn’t exactly anything special, after all.

“Didn’t wanna lie to you, though,” he mumbles stiffly as an explanation, glancing around the street for wandering eyes---gaze cutting through the dim yellow streetlight and into the darker corners that abound in this area, but he doesn’t really see anything. Habit.

More directly, this time, he asks; “What’s your name, though?”

[obsxjiho]

Chaotic Conflicts

[obsmin-blog]

obsxjiho:

Jiho stares for a moment, utterly confused. Not only have his eyes seemed to start bleeding from the inside, he now turns to Jiho and asks him for help. He could’ve sworn these guys were on the same side. What would someone so gritty and intimidating be doing walking the streets during this nonsensical uprising, other than be a part of it?

“Perhaps this is another part of their plan?” he thinks to himself. “To lure me into some sort of elaborate trap?” It doesn’t really make sense to him. That shot looked like it was meant to be lethal. He quickly looks up in the direction it came from. A dark figure peeks over a nearby rooftop, holding what appears to be an old crossbow of some kind. They appear to be reloading. The time for thinking is running out. He glances around quickly to see four others closing in on them from every direction; the two of them are surrounded. Jiho doesn’t need to trust this guy to know what to do; even if this is a trap, he’s confident he can deal with him later. That guy above them is the biggest threat right now, so he’s the priority.

He pulls his jacket off and spreads his arms. His scuffle with the red guy apparently drew out a few feathers on his neck and forearms. He kicks off his shoes as his feet begin to shift into talons. His arms start to darken and expand as he grows more feathers on them, soon to be wings. He blinks a few times and brings the crossbow guy into focus. He can see every detail of him now. He’s covering his face with a bandana, and a ball cap of some kind. He’s almost done loading his crossbow, but he isn’t paying attention to the ground. He flaps his wings twice, creating a light breeze for a moment. Someone charges at him with a knife from his right. He notices just in time to effortlessly jump above the attack. Before he has a chance to return to the ground, he presses his feet against the man’s face beneath him, and pushes downward, propelling himself into the air. The man falls on his back and stumbles to his feet, but Jiho is already well out of reach, and on his way to his target.

It all happens in a matter of seconds, but to Jiho, it feels considerably longer. The building isn’t too terribly tall, not more than two stories, so it only takes one full propulsion of his wings to give him more than enough speed to get there. He hasn’t taken his eyes off his prey for more than a second, who is now well aware of his situation. He doesn’t falter, nor seem to show any signs of fear. He aims the crossbow directly at Jiho. He has to wait until after it’s fired before he can dodge the bolt, and the amount of time he’ll have to react diminishes the closer he gets. Jiho swoops above the shooter as he reaches the top of the building, expecting him to shoot. He doesn’t. He only continues to aim.

Jiho isn’t about to wait for this guy all day. He flies up and behind him, and grabs him on the shoulder with one of his talons before he gets the chance to turn around. He digs his talons deep into his shoulder, does a somersault in the air, and pulls the guy with him, slamming him into the pavement of the roof. It’s only when Jiho reorients himself, that the man decides to shoot. He wasn’t expecting that. He wasn’t expecting him to shoot after he pressed him into the roof. Jiho only had enough time to see it coming, and not nearly enough time to dodge. It generously grazes his left side, just beneath the wing. It hurts.

It hurts like hell.

He’s never felt anything like this before, never been so careless as to let himself get struck by silver in any fashion. This guy must’ve known it would’ve been easier to hit him if he waited, even if it meant he had to take a hit himself. Jiho lands as his wings begin to fall apart. His vision is blurry for a moment as he starts to stumble backwards. From what he can make out, the crossbow guy doesn’t seem to be moving anymore. That’s good, at least. Feathers fall off him like sweat. He’s on the cusp of blacking out as he starts to fall backwards off the edge of the roof. He realizes one last thing before he hits the ground.

He probably won’t make it home in time to save his ice cream.

Being a hunter, Minkwang’s seen some shit in his life. It doesn’t quite surprise him to see the guy he’s with turning partway into some kind of bird, per say---it does have him staring for just a second, though, as he lets the pieces click together in his head. He’d already pretty well figured out that he was supernatural, based on that death grip, but some kind of were-bird or whatever wasn’t really the first thing Minkwang had guessed (if he’d really guessed at all, there) despite the feathers that now make the conclusion seem pretty obvious.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it and doesn’t care to anyway; Minkwang hunches down and springs at the closest enemy, movements practiced and quick enough that he gets the upper hand. Were they not expecting an aggressive response? Were they not expecting someone who hunts for a living? That instant of his opponent faltering is enough for Minkwang to shove this one to the ground, a sharp scream escaping her from where Minkwang’s red aura burns through his fingers and into her face. Her head hits the concrete with an awful crack---the smell of blood clogs Minkwang’s brain.

“Isn’t it too early to be running into vamps?” a different voice from before hisses, and Minkwang catches sight of a silver blade in the shadows. “Careful, he’s got foreign magic all over him, too.”

Minkwang snarls, but he reins himself in; there’s a line between being decisive and being hasty, though it can be fine. He glances up; bird guy is dealing with the crossbow guy, so he’s free to focus on the thugs in front of him. One’s shifty gestures betray his nervousness; if they think he’s a vampire and are scared because of it, then so be it, he can’t bring himself to give a damn in this case. Another one comes up his flank and Minkwang whirls around, only to feel something that buzzes like magic grip around his chest, trying to restrain him---it’s not physically there but he grabs at the sensation regardless, red glare fixated on the lunging assailant.

An unmistakable glow of crimson bursts up from Minkwang’s scars and over his sleeves, colliding with his opponent’s magic---burning through it, allowing Minkwang to grab hold of the attacker’s arm and twist it as the wannabe witch (he just has a charm in hand, he probably doesn’t have any real magic) cries out from the burning sensation of the ghoul’s aura. He has to move quickly, hearing the others behind him closing in, so he merely uses the opportunity to duck to the side---it’s about that time that he hears a scream and sees feathers falling, forcing his gaze upward.

Bird guy has a problem---but at least it looks like the crossbow guy has a bigger problem, for the moment, and it’s a saving grace that these amateurs are easily distracted by the scene overhead too. It gives Minkwang an opening to put a little more space between him and the others as he shrugs his jacket off, letting the translucent glow of his wards brighten and stop threatening to burn his own skin from their leather-clad prison.

[odminsung]

liar.

[odminsung]

[ obsmin ]

this used to be so normal for them, he thinks.

except back then hyerin was barely tall enough to look over the hospital bed. he never needed to, really, because he was always the one in it, too many needles stuck into his frail wrists, fat gloopy tears running down his face while he made awful faces, the kind a child makes when they’re desperately trying not to cry but already are. more often than not minkwang was the one standing next to him when he woke up, brushing hyerin’s hair to the side and asking the nurse to for the pink jello they couldn’t afford at him. 

hyerin’s much better than he used to be, but the nostalgia for those moments makes it too hard to breathe. how awful he used to think his life was, like that would be the peak of his unhappiness.

the hand in his shifts, fingers brushing his own and hyerin snaps his head up, standing up so quickly the chair goes skidding back. he squeezes minkwang’s hand between his, holding it up against his chest as he reaches out to touch his brother’s cheek.  “minkwang? look at me, focus. are you alright?” 

he reaches over to the bedside table to get a bottle of water, fingers hesitating before he presses the call nurse button as well. he grabs the bottle, uncapping it as he brings it close to minkwang’s face. 

“c’mon, sit up. you need to drink something.” 

he’s working on auto pilot, too preoccupied with minkwang to think about how this is so uncharacteristic for him, that he’d never look after someone like this usually, let alone the brother he supposedly hates. the nurse didn’t believe him when hyerin introduced himself as such, not till he forced them to pull up certificates saying so because he’d changed his last name just to put some distance between them. 

[obsmin-blog]

there’s a dissonance here---even minkwang can feel it, in all his unobservant glory. it’s been some time since his wounds were treated in such an incredibly “human” way; at the guild it was all weird salves concocted from herbs or skilled energy manipulators doing their work, witch-doctors in all their glory, not white rooms and sterile metals and electronics. even when he was in a place like this before---it was rarely with him on the cot, more often him sitting inhumanly still beside her, struggling through the process of comforting her. (he wonders if the effort had meaning, or if he’s always been this emotionally ineffective.)

sleep clings to minkwang like a heavy blanket, and coma does the same; he blinks for a moment or two, not quite processing his surroundings. it’s like his hardware is online but the software takes just that much longer to become usable---when it does, there’s a bottle near his face and he can feel hyerin’s hand around his, warmer but not quite warm, still.

his eyes widen a fraction, lips parting slightly---his expressions are always honest. “mm,” he mutters as a sound of agreement, fingers wrapping around the offered water; he sits up, feels the pain and the weakness throughout his body---the airy feeling in his head that can’t be anything but blood loss of the less-human kind.

minkwang ignores it pointedly---he’ll get to that once his body is in order again---for now, that big-brother instinct not to let hyerin worry over him too much is much more pressing. “’m alright,” he confirms---there’s a strange feeling in his chest as minkwang takes a sip from the bottle, then looks down. nothing’s interesting on the floor but it’s enough to let his lips twitch into the slightest semblance of a smile, in spite of how he’s sore down to his bones.

“you been here long?” he asks, tone lacking assumptions---his throat’s dry, he realizes now, so he downs a bit more of the water instinctively.

[koreantunes]

Visit Original Link

이민혁 [Lee Minhyuk (BTOB)] - Purple Rain (ft. Cheeze)

[obsmin-blog]

─ exchange.

--- @obshakyeon

When it comes to whether or not the benefits of staying a ghoul outweigh the trouble it causes---Minkwang wouldn’t be able to give you a straight answer.

It’s not just because Minkwang is so bad with words, either; it’s because truthfully, he wants to just say he hates it, but if that were true, then he wouldn’t be trapped in this infinite loop of rationalizing and excusing himself---or rather, if he weren’t constantly rationalizing it to himself, perhaps it’d be easier to just be honest about how he feels. It’s hard to tell which direction it goes, but he knows that it leaves his feelings conflicted and his thoughts scrambled about the matter---he knows most of all that it’s too difficult and painful to stop, and he’s too weak and pathetic to fight back against that.

The matter of fact is, though, that being a rouge ghoul is hard---he never had to feel that overwhelming craving before, the need that manifests into a buzzing pain in his nerves and makes him feel like he’ll fall apart physically before he does mentally, anywhere within his spotty memories of thralldom. Being a thrall was easy, disgustingly so; shamefully sneaking a fix after hunting a vampire is the opposite of that, and even though Minkwang is sure his pride is all but ground to dust by now, asking is somehow even worse. Maybe it’s just the memories, the trained habits, making him think that.

It’s why he’s on edge going to visit Hakyeon, even if their agreement seems amicable---the recent troubles in the city are part of it, too, but Minkwang was anxious with this before all this chaos business started. He’s careful, making sure he gives advance notice that he’s coming and stays on his toes even though Hakyeon’s never been anything but warm about the whole matter---Minkwang doesn’t trust himself not to trust too blindly.

He arrives at Aspect Ratio when the moon is high in the sky but there are still people on the streets, if not so many as there would be during the day; it’s a good time for creatures of the night. Minkwang’s steps are quiet and he must look incredibly out of place among the artsy interior of the gallery---he always does---with his simple, lazy clothing and his faded red hair, tattoos and scars showing slightly beyond the trims of his black leather jacket. 

“Hello?” he calls in a low voice, not seeing anyone nearby; honestly, he doesn’t even know if the place is properly open, or if Hakyeon left the door open for him. Minkwang is not exactly an fine art gallery kind of person---he could be more likened to lazy graffiti, if anything.

[obsxeunae-blog]

─ reconfigure.

[obsmin-blog]

obsxeunae:

there’s truly too much in such few words to process simply ─ in that way, she doesn’t believe that it’s a fault of her own. things take time, she knows; this situation isn’t a simple one, but could anyone handle it on the spot if they were in her shoes? 

(maybe he could have ─ but he was the catalyst that caused all this unsettling air to begin with. were eunhyuk still around, she thinks that maybe he’d have been able to solve something like this without problem; he seemed oddly good at it, in her eyes.

but she’s not like eunhyuk, his methods and personality still having been a strange thing to grasp after those years despite how comfortable it was then and the nostalgia of it now. imitating him in that way is no option for her ─ not that it would have been one from the start to begin with ─ but it still, somehow, continues to be the only thing that her thoughts keep returning to.)

and yet despite that, the rain provides the only sound that remains in the space between the two of them. 

because of that, she hears him ─ barely, but she doesn’t stop walking. she doesn’t turn to take a glance over her shoulder nor does she respond to it directly; no, the only way she answers that broken-sounding apology isn’t so much an answer at all, but instead a slightly tightened grip on his sleeve that could be mistaken instead for coincidence. if nothing else, she prefers it that way; silence is a failsafe in the moment, and there are things that she’s certain that she, too, should provide apologies for despite the way that apologizing for fate’s design leaves a strange and uncomfortable feeling behind.

the familiar path to her apartment provides a comfort that eunae hadn’t been sure that she’d been longing for; approaching it has her tugging him along with a slight more insistence, the desire to get them both out of the rain providing the perfect temporary escape route ─ or a detour, at least, away from the conversation that they inevitably must face. 

but first, there’s the promise of shelter that exists when she opens the door and pulls him inside ─ and finally, she lets go of his sleeve in the interest of roaming around to the back with little explanation or word given other than “stay,”. not that she’d say anything concerning the state of her home in the first place; the pile of blankets that take over the couch itself, the stray pillows lined along it with some stragglers settled instead on the floor ─ the pile of snacks that hold center stage of the coffee table. all the same furniture kept in ways that could hardly be considered any different from how they’d often be before responsibility in the form of her guardian would straighten the area out in the place they’d lived before ─ it’s a mirror image and yet still so different than what it used to be.

she’s not blind enough to not find it strange, too; but she is more adamant in dismissing such a feeling when she returns with towel in hand, not having to reach up too far in order to throw it over his head, treating him in the same manner as she would’ve had she been drying one of the cafe dogs off instead. 

it seems apt that one would drown in water but minkwang can breathe just fine while drenched in rain---its the liquid guilt in his lungs that makes him feel like dying, leaves that light swimming-feeling in his head despite how he’s sinking like a stone. eunae is something like a lifesaver ring thrown from the past to keep his head above water, but thinking that leaves a guilty feeling behind, too; eunae is not her cousin, if anything she’s more like minkwang himself in some ways, and nostalgia is a bittersweet thing that would just as soon rip minkwang apart as heal any of his gaping wounds.

it isn’t a coincidence and he knows it---nonverbal phrases are the only ones that he understands easily, his body aware where his mind is blunt---but there’s nothing to say beyond that. he feels broken, used-up---half-dead in that way that shouldn’t be ironic. it’s like he hasn’t been able to fill whatever batteries run a human life over the point where they should flash yellow in warning; he’s a collection of faulty parts that can’t be replaced, and he isn’t savvy enough with hearts to know how to go about repairing them.

minkwang’s shaken from his spiral again by the contrast of dry air on wet skin---it doesn’t feel particularly pleasant but he doesn’t shiver or grimace, just narrows his eyes as he pauses in the entryway of eunae’s apartment, suddenly conscious of just how much water is dripping from his form. he stays without any particular need for a command and glances around, clamoring for a grip on his surroundings; it’s a mess, in simple terms, but under that, it’s familiar.

it strikes him, suddenly, how much eunae is still the same---still a kid. she’s grown a bit and she’s living on her own, but the symptoms of what’s missing show with her home just the way they do with his own, and in some odd way, perhaps that’s a comfort. if he’s lost, then he isn’t lost alone; the world hasn’t completely passed him by.

she comes back about the time he’s finished peeling his jacket from his body; it’s soaked through and his skin is wet underneath, but he feels better without the addition of heavy fabric. he doesn’t flinch, but still rolls slightly with the towel on his head, inclining his neck enough that eunae can easily reach all of his head---he lets her towel him off, less prone to wiggling than the wet dog he most resembles.

“eunae...” he starts after a moment, voice unsure---he feels like it’s his place to say something, but he’s lost for what to say. “i... i don’t know... i should...” he mumbles, but the words evade him entirely---it’s too much to ask of himself, he guesses, when there are so many thoughts in his head trying to make themselves heard.

[odminsung]

liar.

@obsmin

he wrings his hands, foot tapping against the linoleum floor impatiently. there’s little to do besides wait, but hyerin’s not good at that. his heart is racing in his chest, pounding against his ribcage though he hasn’t moved at all from his plastic chair. it’s been hours and the only company he’s had is the rotating reception staff and the occasional janitor passing through. 

hyerin doesn’t like hospitals. they smell more like death to him than any corpse could.

“park hyerin?” a nurse steps into the waiting room, not bothering to look up as he scribbles something down. hyerin is already up and walking towards him, so close that when the nurse looks up he jumps back in shock at how quickly hyerin had come. 

“can i see him?” 

he shouldn’t have pushed minkwang like that. he shouldn’t have forced him to go in alone, without back up, thrown his own brother to his death without a second thought. his selfishness has kept him alive for so long, but there’s the inevitable limit he never thought he’d come across, that one day he’d lose something worth more in trying to save himself. 

the heart monitor beeps steadily, the metronome drowning out the sound of his pride till he can’t remember why he ever listened to it at all. 

his hands don’t stop shaking until they’re tight around minkwang’s, nails digging into the flesh of his brother’s palm. the doctor tells him that he’s recovering just fine, that he’ll wake up soon enough. hopefully. if all goes well. if he can pull through.

hyerin once didn’t speak to his brother for three years, but it weighs nothing compared to the silence of these three days. 

with a sigh, he leans down, resting his head next to his brother’s stomach, tightening his grip around the other’s hand. “wake up hyung.”  his heart aches, the weight of loneliness upon it. how long has it been since he’s had a family? since he’s had anyone? he lost minkwang a long time before he thought he did, before he watched his brother being rushed into the ambulance. hyerin hasn’t had a sibling in years. he closes his eyes. he won’t cry. 

“please wake up.”

[obsmin-blog]

it takes a lot to make him go too far---minkwang knows his limits, he knows what’s “far enough” and that he can push just a little harder than that as long as his head’s empty and he’ll be fine, he always comes out of it fine.

and if his head’s full of something?---of stubbornness, of anxiety, of anger? it’s all nonsense just the same, really---well, if that happens, it always ends up like this, with minkwang ten kinds of fucked up and the point of the whole damn stupid thing lost to the void.

but god, god he feels like there’s something he has to prove---prove, or atone for, or make good on even though the “promise” has been forgotten somewhere along the way---when hyerin hisses orders at him like he’s worse than a dog (and well, maybe he is; obedient and loyal to the point of idiocy), sneers at him like he’s some kind of disgusting bug (he’s not quite human anymore, is that it?), it’s hard to think straight like that. it makes him reckless where he’s usually cautious enough---jittery where he’s usually calm and collected, head empty, body ready.

so it’s no wonder that minkwang, an idiot with a head full of nonsense and veins full of blood, ended up on the weaker end of half-dead when things got rough.

( he doesn’t blame her. there’s a kind of guilt he can’t define that’s been eating him alive since he got his head back---it crawls up from the pit of his gut and it rips him apart, telling him he’s to blame, that he let all this happen and the least he can fucking do at this point is regret it. 

so he doesn’t blame hyerin. he couldn’t possibly blame her when he’s too busy blaming himself to such an extent that he’s blind to the things he’s truthfully done. )

the first thing he’s remotely aware of is the faint, high-pitched beeping of a monitor---it’s just shrill enough that it blinks into his black haze of unconsciousness every so often, like it’s underwater, but it’s there anyway. the next is simply his own body---heavy, sore, distant in that way that it always seems to be lately---truthfully, everything feels strange.

he barely thinks he heard someone’s voice, but his head’s filled with white noise and words don’t filter through right---but his fingers twitch slightly as if to clasp around the hand in his own.

it’s the realization of that that finds his eyes opening sluggishly, finding that the world is all too harsh of a white around him---the smell of antiseptics and a faint undertone of blood hits him hard and minkwang squints, fumbling for an awareness of the throbbing in his head and more importantly, for the person beside him.

“...hyerin?” his voice doesn’t even properly leave him, breaking into a hoarse whisper in the process---his throat is too dry, it almost hurts, but everything’s too fuzzy for minkwang to mind.

[obsxjiho]

Chaotic Conflicts

[obsmin-blog]

obsxjiho:

Jiho hardly had any time to react before he found himself completely at this guy’s mercy. He was no stranger to a fight, but he didn’t expect this guy to get the upper hand so quickly. Expectedly, the stranger didn’t respond well to being struck in the face, and returned the favor with a swift knee to the stomach. It was enough to knock Jiho off-balance; he wasn’t ready for that much force to come from someone this size. It was enough to make him wince, and that gave his opponent an opening to get behind him and grab him in a choke hold. He had dealt with his fair share of hunters and similar forces in the past, but this guy was something else. He was no joke, and very clearly knew what he was doing.

His raspy suggestion to “not be stupid” stung Jiho’s ear, and he was certain the same ear received a slight spray of blood from his mouth as a result. Gross, but Jiho had bigger things to worry about. Obviously this was a ploy to get him to “make it easier for the both of them.” The sooner he stopped resisting, the sooner he would never have to worry about getting groceries again. Such a threat meant little to him, as if he was “stupid” enough to give up without putting up a fight. He wasn’t about to be another piece of supernatural modern art like those other bodies from the news. As he struggled, he started to get riled up. “I’m not about to get turned into a corpse!” He thought to himself as he tried to break free, “I MAKE corpses! I LIVE OFF corpses!”

He found it harder to break free than he expected, but his aggressor made the mistake of loosening his grip. Jiho wasn’t sure why, but he wasn’t one to pass up a chance like this. He took this opportunity to grab this guy and throw him off of his back, slamming him into the ground in front of him.

“Get OFF of me!” he grunts amidst his retaliation.

In the scuffle, Jiho had no choice but to let go of his other bag; it had fallen in front of him when he was knee’d in the gut. Unfortunately, he unintentionally threw this guy right on top of it, presumably cushioning the blow. He was too invested in staying alive to care at this point. His sunglasses had fallen off at some point, and his hood was now down as a result of the struggle.

Jiho jumps a few feet back, if only to get some distance. He might have considered running if his predatory instincts hadn’t kicked in. He refuses to break his gaze from this guy, even if he is lying on the ground. Jiho isn’t about to give this Chaos grunt another chance to restrain him. He has a moment to come to his senses, and in this moment he takes a whiff of the air. There’s death on the wind, and it’s close. Really close. He can make out several distinct scents, and he glances around as much as he can without moving his head and losing the guy in front of him. Jiho doesn’t see anyone, but he knows they’re getting closer; the red-haired guy’s reinforcements have arrived.

The moment when his attention is divided is enough for the other guy to break out of his grip, not giving Minkwang time to full process what’s happening before he’s on the ground. It hurts but he doesn’t let it show more in more than a wet hiss from bloody lips; he wastes no time attempting to scramble to his feet, eyes as red as his hair by now as a basal instinct swells up through his form. He’s sure he’ll have some bruises and he can feel some scrapes on his arms and legs but fuck it, those things won’t even matter much in the long term.

Minkwang rights himself with a fangy scowl, his hands still on the ground to support him, the smell of his own blood making his head spin---he can’t lose control now, he has to stay focused. The guy’s still looking at him---but now Minkwang can see his face in the weak illumination from the streetlights, his blue eyes. Not that Minkwang had had any doubts about him being a supernatural by now, not with how strong he is, but it’s a confirmation anyway; those kinds of eyes don’t just show up on Korean people.

He’s about to bite out another threatening bit of advice when he hears something again, and smells blood that isn’t just his own---this feathery asshole seems to have noticed it too, even though he doesn’t take his eyes off Minkwang. The ghoul stands up fully, glancing around---he trusts his eyes more than his other senses, still too human in these ways---and finally catches sight of another body, his own tensing up impossibly at the sight.

“I know you’re there,” he rumbles, keeping an eye on the feathery guy through his peripherals. Minkwang finally reaches for the dagger at his waist, fingers tensing around the handle that juts from its leather casing; this might really get bad. “Show yourselves.”

They make themselves known with a silver crossbow bolt that Minkwang dodges, fangs gritted; this is going to be more like fighting hunters than fighting rouge supernaturals, isn’t it? He’s done that a few times, though it’s not usually this serious---not life-threatening in nature. He very nearly forgets that he was just fighting with someone else for a moment, focus caught up on the newcomers which pose a greater threat.

“What a pain,” a voice grumbles from somewhere close by, “I was hoping they’re wear each other out, but I guess we’ve been spotted.”

There’re five of them, Minkwang concludes quickly; they all look human, but he doesn’t let that fool him. He doesn’t have any real way of detecting if they’re armed with wards or magic or what, right now. He braces himself into a ready stance and glances over at the feathery guy, eyes even redder than his (slightly faded, to be fair) hair. He sucks his split lip into his mouth, words clanking around uselessly in his thoughts.

“There’re five I can see,” he says in a biting tone, “only one’s got range. Lend me a hand---don’t wanna drag this out.” Minkwang turns, brazenly showing his back to the jumpy blue-eyed guy, and faces the thugs in the shadows. He draws his dagger now, letting the faint yellow street light glint off its silver surface, and waits, scars practically radiating heat beneath the sleeves of his jacket.

[obsmin-blog]

need to know.

[obsmin-blog]

obsdongwoo:

Dongwoo doesn’t know what’s wrong with his concentration: either being bitten slashed his attention span into ribbons or the turpentine for his paintings is finally messing with his head. For the first time in his life, he’s genuinely interested in learning about the supernatural world. But, he can’t control himself long enough to hear more than snippets of information. He’s not clever enough to quilt the words together into something that makes sense.

His curious gaze is laser-sharp, then it’s spacey. His expression is serious, then his nose tries wiggling off his face. His body is still, then he turns towards slamming doors two streets away.

Even if his life depended on it, there’s no chance that he could repeat anything Minkwang says. It’s only through a stroke of luck that he catches the end of the ghoul’s response. 

“I guess it’s similar enough that I’d make a mistake,” he agrees. “Kinda like when you bring juice to your room, but you forget you brought the juice until two weeks later. And there’s a funky smell on your desk, but it’s still a little fruity? So you’re like hey, maybe it’s still good! But, there’s these weird speckles in it that tell you it’s bad even if it smells kinda okay. And yeah, I get you.” 

This kid is gonna die while slurping a molding lemonade. 

It’s not like him to go on a wordy tangent, but he’s acting faster than he’s thinking. One sentence links to another and there’s no filter to catch them; by the time he reflects on one word, he’s already blurted five more. If those cramped, over-sized wolf teeth weren’t slowing down his speech, he’d probably talk faster. He’s always been of the impulsive sort, but never of this intensity. Yet, it’s only mildly concerning to him – earns a slight, paper thin line between his brow and nothing more. What’s the big deal? It’s not like having the attention span of a golden retriever could hurt somebody. 

“Oh, well I guess I’m half furry and half fleshy,” he says. “How do you end up only half-vampire anyway? Is it like–Oh, ow!” His canine teeth bore into his lower lip. The sharp ends shear the plump, pink flesh like taking scissors to a feather pillow. It stings; hot, prickly, and eliciting a pitchy whine. His first instinct is to lick it – no, it’s to wipe it with his sleeve. The werewolf’s tongue darts out and pokes the torn flesh, pushing around a small flap of skin. He licks away the small spurt of blood and his pupils dilate. All of the sudden, he’s extra twitchy and ready to chase down the next object to cross his vision. 

If it excitement has a taste, he think it probably tastes like a split lip. 

His teeth finally shrink down to a human’s size and he’s back to normal: a naive kid in a neon hoodie, scratching a perpetually itchy nose and bordering on the twitchy side. 

“A were of what?”

This kid’s metaphors are on some other level, Minkwang’s decided. He’s pretty sure he’s never smelled anything quite like what he’s describing, rotten fruit juice or not-quite-bad juice or whatever he’s saying---it’s all pretty much nonsense. So he just listens, blinking a few times, brows eventually lifting up again and lips pressing ever-so-slightly to the side; what’s a hunter to do when confronted with someone like this? He’s so bold and confused and innocent---it’s probably some kind of community service to try to help him out, somehow.

At least “half furry and half fleshy” sounds like a rough confirmation of his theory---though it’s hard to dwell on that when the smell of blood catches him off guard. Minkwang flinches, hand shooting up to cover his mouth and nose in part; it’s not as stark and overwhelming as vampiric blood, thankfully, but it’s enough to make his fangs itch in his mouth. He doesn’t normally worry about them showing up, since they don’t mean much of anything, but regardless he takes a moment to shakes his head to right his mind before it goes down any strange paths. This is probably a sign that he hasn’t been feeding entirely properly.

“A were,” he says, emphasizing the words more heavily as he removes his hand from his face. “Geez, kid, you really don’t know shit?” Minkwang rolls his shoulder, expression somewhere between exasperation and concern. “Sayin’ you’re a werewolf would be assumptuous---bad of me. ‘S bad to assume.” And that’s what he gets for trying to use big words, especially when his head got briefly thrown through a wonky loop.

But that aside, seriously, this kid’s going to get himself killed at this rate.

“Look---let’s walk and talk.” Minkwang offers, shifting and taking a step in some other direction as his hand finds its way back into his pocket. “Standing around looks weird. Someone might hear.” The ghoul sighs, rolling his neck slightly. This kid’s lucky that Minkwang isn’t a much worse kind of hunter---otherwise that naivete would put him in some serious danger.

“And let’s start from the top: name’s Minkwang. I’m a hunter.”

[obsxjiho]

Chaotic Conflicts

[obsmin-blog]

obsxjiho:

Upon contact with the stranger, he froze. How could he have been so careless as to let someone brush up against him?! The potential danger of his situation was immediately apparent. He wanted nothing more than to keep walking, but that wishful thinking was crushed when he spoke. He managed to turn his head in time to hear part of the man’s question. His voice was so coarse; just the sound of him made Jiho feel uneasy. Time began to slow to a crawl as he analyzed the stranger. He could faintly smell death on this guy, but that wasn’t what worried him. Out of the corner of his eye, outside his sunglasses, he caught a glimpse of his face. His eyes stared right through Jiho; it felt as if this guy’s question was directed to someone else, yet he was looking right at him. His comment seemed like it might have been considerate had it been delivered in a less intimidating tone, but it was more easily interpreted as a sarcastic threat. “Of course it’s a bad time to be out,” he thought to himself. “Suspicious people walking the streets, looking for prey.” He wasn’t even close to bringing himself to make such a remark out loud. He was too distracted with his own questions. Is this what those chaos minions look like? Is this what they do to their victims before they kill them? Perhaps the man’s question was a test to make sure Jiho was a supernatural; if he gave the wrong answer, ten hidden guys would jump out of the shadows and strike from all sides. He looked too suspicious to just be out wandering the streets without a purpose. This man was here for a reason, and he stopped Jiho for a reason.

He wasn’t about to let himself get caught and ruin his groceries in the process. He couldn’t waste any more time than his ice cream would allow, so he decided to skip the formalities.

Calmly, doing a good job to not look jumpy or nervous, he turns around fully. He slightly shakes his arms to beckon to his grocery bags, and politely responds,

“What am I doing? Why, isn’t it obvious? I’m simply returning from the store.”

He glances down to his bags in hopes the stranger will follow suit to observe the contents, if only for a moment. A mere second is all he needs. Through his sunglasses, he catches what he hoped for. The dark eyes have broken their gaze, and he can move again.

In an instant, without a second thought or a better plan, Jiho drops the bag on his left, the one he is sure doesn’t have the eggs in it.

And he throws a punch.

Suspicious. Minkwang’s eyes narrow -- he doesn’t draw conclusions just yet, but he knows that this guy is suspicious. It could just as easily be true that this stranger really is just innocent, though likely not normal, as it could be that he’s dangerous; the tension in the air elevates to such a level that it roots itself through his every muscle and sinew, making Minkwang feel like a rubber band pulled out to its limits. And yet his body language barely changes, contained and level, even as the other person turns to face him.

His first mistake turns out to be letting his gaze shift from the stranger’s face to the bags in his hands -- because within a split second, there’s a fist connecting with his cheek and Minkwang falters, rolling with the blow as the scent of his own blood hits his nose. 

His instincts flare and he reacts fast, hand lashing out to grab onto the other’s forearm and leg shooting upward to knee him in the gut -- as hard as this guy hits Minkwang can feel that he’s untrained, so he wraps an arm around the taller man’s neck in an attempt to use his position to his advantage. A ghoul’s strength is nothing to sneeze at and Minkwang works out but this guy is strong in that way that only supernaturals can be -- but Minkwang doesn’t go for a weapon yet, his wards growing hot under his sleeves.

“You’re tough,” he hisses past his split lip, not minding what a monstrous look he must have with fangs peeking out of his snarl and red seeping into his irises, “So don’t be fucking stupid.”

His grip grows lax when he hears a sound -- someone’s there, and that can’t mean anything good for either of them.

[obsluhan-blog]

KNOCK KNOCK; It’s vodka.

[obsmin-blog]

obsluhan:

There’s a lopsided smile on his face- fangs barely showing as he looks Minkwang over several times. The bottle is taken from his hands and Lu just sort of watches as his friend takes a drink. Really, he’s not letting on as much as he could how worried he was. Minkwang was a good friend. Sure, they had their differences and all, but Lu has always liked the guy. Thinking he was dead actually did upset the wendigo a good bit, but he just doesn’t want it to sound that way. It’s better that he joke around- keep the mood light.

The answer throws him off though- turns his smile into a concerned frown. He blinks a few times- eyes a bit wider than they probably should be. Lu just watches for a moment- watches as Minkwang drinks and the silence settles in. Is he serious, though? Did he really die? Lu has never been great at figuring this sort of stuff out. He’s never been great at reading people or not just assuming whatever they say is true. Sometimes sarcasm misses him too. Minkwang isn’t any of that, though. He’s just really hard to read and that’s probably just a part of what makes him Minkwang. It’s still a bit difficult to deal with though… Not to the point it annoys Lu, just to the point it’s leaving him as confused as always.

He pulls the second bottle from his bag- opening it with an illogical ease. He takes a swig himself- unfazed by the burn. It’s only expected with how much he’s already had that it wouldn’t matter to him. He’s just used to it- drinks to much for it to really matter. He blinks a few times at the question. He’s not dead, that’s true. No more dead than Minkwang, at least. No more dead than usual. He taps the bottle with one of his fingers- sighing just a little. How has he been?

“The usual.” He yawns at the words. “To be honest, not a lot’s changed in the past year for me. Still stripping at the same damn club… The guy’s there are still picking on me about not fitting in and I haven’t done much aside drink, work, sleep too little, and feel tired. So I guess I haven’t changed much.” He shakes his head. It’s true. He’s fallen into this same pattern over the last few years. There’s this sickening feeling that he should be trying harder- that things should change, but he never really does. He’s still stuck slaughtering- hunting. It’s… rough.

He puts the bottle against his head for a moment- staring into the distance. He wishes he was more drunk- as always. The bottle isn’t as cool as he would like, so he removes it from his head as he starts up talking again.

“Still drinking a lot, I guess? Sorry, I’m just a boring old man, hun’~” He laughs at that. “How about you, though? What’s going on in the fascinating life of a dead man…?”

It doesn’t really bother him that he might be confusing Lu -- Minkwang is pretty used to being regarded as “confusing” simply because he’s so emotionally blunt that people don’t usually know what to do with him. He just doesn’t express the way they do -- doesn’t care to force it, either -- so he’s confusing instead. Might as well go for being confusing and drunk, now that the opportunity has so graciously presented itself.

It’s strange hearing that nothing has changed when it feels like so much has changed -- maybe it’s only true to people who’d had their fingers on the pulse of the underworld to begin with, like hunters and people with other vested interests in the matter. Lu is simple -- just living his life the same way, even if so much is changing. In a way, that makes sense.

“Mm,” he acknowledges simply, pulling the bottle back toward his body since Lu apparently had an entire additional one in his bag. It seems to fit with Lu’s character as he knows it, as much as it makes Minkwang cock a brow to see. “Sometimes that’s good, though. Same old same old and all.” He’s not convinced, but it doesn’t show in his tone any more than... any other emotion really does, to be fair. As a hunter, he lives for danger -- but maybe that’s why he has an appreciation for routine.

He takes a few steps inside, plopping down unceremoniously on his couch -- the place is almost distressingly bare, just the simplest of what appears to be military-surplus furniture and not a hint of decoration or life to be found. He knocks back another drink before setting his gaze on his friend again, then glancing off to the side as he mumbles. “How to say that in a short version...” It’s going to take a bit more alcohol before he’ll tell the long version.

“Shit happened,” he settles on, not especially wanting to elaborate. He waves his hand very slightly, having a hard time finding appropriate words that aren’t too telling -- even if Lu is supernatural, or maybe especially because he is, there are things Minkwang doesn’t want to say. It’s unnecessarily difficult. “A lot of shit. Kinda died and all. I’m back at my old job, and it’s pretty shit too.” He takes another drink, then smirks a bit in Lu’s direction. To some extent, it seems like they may be in the same boat -- which isn’t such a bad feeling.

[obsmin-blog]

curbstomp.

[obsmin-blog]

obsjeongguk

It’s a matter of seconds until everything comes tumbling down - literally.

The moment contact is directly initiated between them, when the fingers of the others curl around his skin and press against it, Jeongguk remembers exactly how much he dislikes to be touched. There is something that rises up within him, an emotion so strong that is makes him struggle underneath the hold of the other. Teeth grit and even if he’s placed in this unfavorable position, he doesn’t seem willing to throw in the towel just yet; fire still courses through his veins and there’s still strength left in him to fight, so it makes no sense for things to be over so quick.

The remark made only hits the nail head-on and it causes a low, guttural noise to sound up from Jeongguk - it’s akin to a growl and it comes accompanied by another attempt to liberate himself. Without any desired result, his body stills under the grasp that the other holds onto him; it remains tense. “No shit,” he eventually retorts, all the while fighting the urge to writhe.

There’s no need for that, as the other loosens his hold but he’s not free just yet. This game of humiliation that the red-haired bastard’s playing at doesn’t end until a point is made and, frankly, Jeongguk’s having none of it. 

Even in his rebellious state, he’s not a fool - the only way out of this situation is to behave and comply. That seems to be what the other’s trying to teach him, so Jeongguk might as well refrain from making matters worse; for himself, that is. With a clear trace of reluctance, he withholds from exhaling a breath of air in annoyance and offers up the long-awaited response, “Jeongguk. Jeon Jeongguk - what’s it to you?”

One can’t say he didn’t try, at least.

One thing that can be said for sure is that this kid has fire to him. It’s been true from the beginning and a little taste of defeat isn’t enough to knock it out of him -- Minkwang thinks that’s a good thing. That kind of determination is something he used to have, to be sure -- a stubbornness that may run in the family, really, and maybe this boy reminds Minkwang more of Hyerin than he admits -- and it, if the anger is tempered, is the kind of thing that keeps people alive against the worst of odds.

So Minkwang just huffs a bit as the boy struggles, growls even, beneath him -- he doesn’t let up until he gets the slight sign of submission he’d been going for, that little hint of proof that he’s accomplished something, too. With a little bit of finesse and experience and control, this kid really does have potential -- but he needs to learn to pick his battles, as well.

He gives the slightest of lopsided smiles upon finally learning the boy’s name -- Jeongguk. Minkwang moves completely aside, giving the boy room to right himself despite his state, and sits down on the gym floor cross-legged, completely casual. He’s hardly even winded from their sparring -- but that’s because he isn’t human, so it’s nothing to be proud of.

“Song Minkwang,” he says plainly, eyeing Jeongguk, “Nice to meet you.”