Bi行

❛ call a truce and grab a cup, irang. ❜

"ugh."

it slips out without him realizing. though, he wouldn't have swallowed it back even if he had the chance. irang stands motionless even after the talking stops, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as he stares, a faint haze behind his eyes. somewhere in the midst of listening, his guarded expression had begun to fracture, subtle but there. a heavy tilt of his head, the slow slackening of his jaw.

"talking like that before sunrise should be illegal," he mutters. "i asked a question, not a thesis statement."

a quiet exhale follows, rough and laced with mild irritation. he takes a tentative step forward—a hunter stepping into unfamiliar ground. as he closes the distance, the grinding pressure in his head begins to recede. it's a slow erosion of tidal waves washing over him, causing his mind to stumble. the pacing behind his ribs stills, and rejection flares in his chest. his nails dig into his palms as a gritting realization hits him: his own body is siding with the stranger in the chair.

forcing a change in his rhythm, he deliberately puts his heels down first as he heads towards the kitchenette. he isn't aiming for sleek; he's aiming to strike a nerve.

"none of that is in my job description." his words dripping with dry sarcasm, he shifts his attention to the tray. he could leave. the thought pulls at him. his headache might have eased, but his brain feels restless, crowded with the weight of unanswered questions. he drowns his thoughts in tea, tossing in two sugar cubes. clink, clink, clink, the spoon raps against the porcelain. as he watches the steam curl from the cup, the urge to leave dulls.

he takes a shallow sip, only to grimace immediately, as if the tea had personally offended him. he reaches for the sugar again. another cube drops in with a small splash. only then does he slump into the chair opposite of the witch, like it was his decision all along.

"i'm only staying until the cup's empty," he says, his voice a low rumble.

"did you know that there is an old wives tale that you should name your cauldron? if you name it and say it's name three times in a row, then all of the potions you brew will be successful. what should we name them, mr. leopard?"

the air is thick with a saccharine, herbal rot. an unwelcome intrusion that settles at the base of his skull, blooming into a dull, persistent ache. irang glares at the culprit. the cauldron responds with low murmurs like something alive. his lips press together faintly in disgust, and a stinging regret follows. he should have run when he had the chance. now, he's forced to watch as his hopes and dreams ( slacking off on a rooftop in the name of surveillance, catching up on sleep ) dissolve into a pot of unstable, pulsing sludge.

eunbyul's delight is a stark, grating contrast. he sits slouched in his seat, counting the seconds until he's allowed to leave. meanwhile, she is on her feet, radiating enthusiasm. he clicks his tongue, and swats away a stray bubble with a sharp, impatient flick of a wrist—as if he's brushing off a persistent housefly. "it's a pot, eunbyul. not a pet," he sighs, shifting his gaze to her.

"then again, it is trying to climb out. is it house-trained or should i be worried?" his tone stays flat, and with immaculate timing, the potion lets out a wet gurgle. although he didn't know much about magic, he's quite certain it isn't supposed to sound like that. his attention snaps back to the mixture as the foam surges upwards. irang doesn't hesitate. he hauls eunbyul back by her shoulder, just as the first wave sloshes over the rim. in the same flow of motion, he hooks his boots onto the edge of his chair, crouching on top of the seat to avoid the spills as it hits the floor.

as an old korean proverb suggests: tracing the character 忍 ( endurance, patience ), three times in your mind can avert even murder. in a desperate measure, irang closes his eyes, visualizing each of the strokes behind his eyelids. once, twice, thrice... but when he opens his eyes again, he is still faced with the battlefield the bathroom has become, damp towels and discarded tools strewn across the floor. it's clear that the proverb didn't account for plumbing. this is a special kind of hell, and irang's patience was the first casualty. though, to be fair, he didn't have much to begin with. certainly not enough to spare three.

he had shown up at the doorstep with a toolbox and a scowl, aware that he could have said no, but equally aware that he didn't. when it came to his aunt's requests, a simple refusal felt impossible, like an answer omitted from the choices. so, here was the result: torso wedged under a stranger's sink, one shoulder pressed into the cold tiles, attempting to follow an overly up-beat voice from his phone: once you've reconnected the p-trap, you can now tighten the slip nuts.

he's aware of the pair of eyes watching him from behind, a presence he's choosing not to acknowledge, his instincts prickling with a particular wariness he reserved for witches. forcibly shifting his attention to the task at hand, a groan slips past his clenched teeth. it has taken many trial and error to get to this step, and if he messed it up now, he's surely going to lose it. it's so simple, the voice insists, and his grip tightens around the wrench. he makes a mental note to hit the thumbs-down button when this is over. now, make sure you don't over-tighten, as this can crack the plastic pipes—crack.

irang stills. for a brief, suspended second, he considers the possibility that he imagined it. but as he loosens his grip, a faint creak answers him. his eye twitches. a tight pull runs along his spine, sharp as tension crawls upwards. and then—an involuntary pop. his breath hitching, he goes rigid.

as the night bruises, the bonfire is coaxed into a roar by practiced hands. impressive, is the extent of his sentiment. irang supposes he should feel relieved that feeding the flames didn't make it to his list. a small token of mercy perhaps, courtesy of his aunt. still, his muscles were sore from manual labour and with the rising volume of music, laughter and chatter—he has had enough. he did his part.

he turns to leave, threading through the crowd with a single-mind focus of someone finally clocking out. however, he is interrupted when his steps hitch, shoulder bumping against someone.

"don't just stand there—" the mild agitation in his voice dissipates into silence as he looks down. he finds a gaze that seems to slip past him, and an expression that spoke louder than words: something is wrong. stepping into her line of vision, he throws a quick glance over at the source of the heat. the noise around them feels distant all of a sudden, like it was all happening behind glass. "hey," his words come out sharp, a command that should have been enough to anchor someone's attention. not this time.

“you should really be watching your stuff more closely ....”

one moment, it's quiet—a fleeting peace for himself. the next, he's pressing his weight into a bleeding wound. words die in his throat as she titters, her lilting amusement causing his instincts to crawl beneath his skin, pulsing a warning of something unsettling. unsettling how? his mind hovers over the answer for a moment, before deciding: it's the audacity of her laughter. grinning back at him like it meant nothing. she didn't even flinch.

"convenient? you're bleeding," he rasps, voice edged with disbelief. his grip tightens, fabric bunched in his hand. "on my jacket, mind you. and you want to talk about convenient?" it had been his choice to use it as a makeshift bandage, sure. doesn't mean he has to like it. as if he's not expecting an answer, he shifts his focus to her forearm, brows knitted into a frown behind his dark locks. "just... stay still, before i decide the paperwork for a missing student is less of a headache than dealing with this."

but the air changes. a familiar burn of tobacco cuts through the heavy scent of iron. his head snaps back up. it's a scent he knows too well. against his better judgement, his hand drifts down to his pocket. the hollow weight confirms: she had reached right past him, all the while he was tending her wound, just to nab a smoke.

“heeere, kitty kitty. . . haven’t you napped long enough?”

with the first tug, his calm, rhythmic breathing hitches into a sharp gasp. it's as if an electric current pierced through his spine, straight into his skull. the second tug? his fingers grip onto the armchair as he jerks upright, the leather groaning beneath him in protest. in a heartbeat, the haze of sleep vanishes without a trace, replaced by a prickly adrenaline that makes his skin crawl. the fine hairs along his arms rise, a phantom static that wants to be fur.

"what the—" his words come out rough, edged with confused irritation. irang drops his gaze down to see whoever dared trespass on his peace. it travels up her wrist, her arm, and finally, her face.

then, his tail snaps back like a lash as he stiffens, the lingering sting at the base of his spine still sharp. it thumps against the side of the armchair in agitation, betraying everything his expression is trying to hold down. a hand comes up, dragging heavily over his face with a groan, as the dull throb of a returning headache settles behind his eyes.

🔒 dlfkd00 :

❛   the dorms are at the other side of the building, not here. i must say, it's too early to be breaking curfews now.  ❜  

when the leopard stirs, irang knows better than to try and ignore it. he had been through it before, learned the hard way. the memories of the consequences burned into his mind: the feverish nights, the violent shudder through his body as fur pierced through his skin and the acidic burn in the back of his throat as he struggled to hold it together. it hurts because you're fighting it, his aunt had said. a soul with two forms, that was the nature of familiars. but the other half of him felt more so like a fickle roommate, the kind that likes to humiliate him, slipping out a tail or growing whiskers over his human features at the worst possible time.

tonight, the beast paces behind his ribs, its low growl vibrating against his spine. patience seems to run thin as irang approaches the library. amber light bleed through the cracks of the mahogany doors, the warmth a direct contrast to the rest of the building, submerged in a monochrome world at this hour. it ignites a strange, misplaced fight-or-flight in his gut.

still, he steps closer. inside, the delicate scent of herbal tea clings to the air. subtle and bitter. his instinct nudges him forward, while the rest of him resists. the sole of his boots barely brushing the carpet, his eyes fleets as it observes the area, until finally, landing on the back of the man's head.

the voice intercepts before he can decide what to do. it causes a sharp flicker of irritation, a jab beneath his ribs. with a quiet sigh, he steps out from the shadow of the shelves.

irang should have known better than to succumb at the sight of sunlight. should have known its warmth would be a relentless lure, bringing him down to his knees at sleep's mercy. but how could he even think straight? the blood moon hunt had drained him; the preparation, the hunt and all. he was but a hollow vessel of a throbbing headache and sore muscles.

with yet another yawn, he stumbles towards solace. five minutes, he tries to reason with himself when his eyes land on a worn leather armchair: perfectly angled before a window, steeped in the afternoon heat for hours.

as the night eases its breath, the scent of petrichor and pine clings to the air. the quiet feels borrowed, a stolen luxury irang is more than happy to exploit during his night shift. a lit cigarette rests between his lips, head tilted back as he exhales a slow, foggy sigh into the obsidian above. surely, a quick fifteen-minute break wouldn't hurt. not like anyone would know. except this little one. a small shadow approaches, bumping its head against his shin. it doesn't take him long to smother the burning tip against the stone wall. only after flicking the remainder into the gravel, does he lower himself towards the cat.

that's when the calm collapses. a soft mewl hitches up, screeching along with the crystalline shatter of glass. the moment stretches—warped, slow. a heavy mass ( he doesn't know what ) hurls through the air, tumbling past him and lands with a dull thud. shards scattering like silver rain, jagged fragments skittering across the stone path. then, silence.

the cat is long gone. irang stays low, watching the last pieces settle.

then, he sees her, emerging from the toothed void of the frame. all too casual, as if she hadn't just broken the dormitory window. the sound of glass bits crumbling beneath her steps ringing in his ears. he recognizes her immediately—michin gashina.

"are you fucking serious?" his words are thick with busan dialect and he stares for a moment, then exhales deeply. he straightens, brushing dust from his knees with the slow, jagged movements of a man profoundly inconvenienced. "you do realize there's a door, right?"

his jaw tightens. he closes the distance and catches her wrist. the air has changed. no more scent of autumn. it has been replaced by the sharp, metallic tang of iron. his instinct spikes, and his brows furrow into a deeper frown as he loosens his grip. the palm of his hand has been smeared by the crimson blooming across her skin. the paperwork trail just got a whole lot longer.

hello hello, i'm sol and with me, i bring a completely new muse... *jazz hands* hong irang ! it has been many years since i have last joined an rp, so i'm both excited and a little nervous. please bear with me as i get back into the swing of things. writing does not come as easily as it used to, but i am just happy to be here. ♡

psst. like this post and i'll be 。。。ミヽ(。＞＜)ノ into your messages for plots.