#obstrict

Baekhyun and Junho are in an arranged marriage, but Baekhyun doesn't want to go through with it — ▲

The morning's cold breeze caressed his cheek as if Mother Nature herself had come to greet him, the howling wind singing words of ancient tales while the rustling leaves wove white noise into the rhythm. He couldn't quite tell when the moon had departed and the sun begun its climb, only that the wind had kept him company ever since the agreement was announced.

You are to be betrothed to Prince Junho at the dawn of the next day. Echoing, haunting words that clung to his mind like a plague, building a nest from broken twigs.

It's funny, he thinks, the way the clouds above weep over his demise, delicate and yet raging droplets crashing to the ground in an incessant rain. It almost goes unnoticed when the center of it all enters the room with quiet but deliberate steps, perhaps in hopes of making his presence known.

Baekhyun doesn't turn around, allowing the faint splashes of rain to kiss his forehead as they break against the railing, a hand extending out into the water's range to let it pool in the palm of his hand.

"You know, Jun, I could run away."

Junho's footsteps stopped a breath behind him. For a moment there was only the rain — a soft, patient percussion — and whatever small war played out in the space between two people who had been taught how to pretend.

"Do you hate me that much?" The other's words are not of hurt, but coated in the same old playful banter they have shared since childhood. So when Baekhyun turns it is with a laugh, joyous and yet ever so bitter with the weight of it all.

"I could never hate you... but I do not love you, just like you do not love me. Well, not in that way." Droplets drip from the tips of his fingers, but his hand comes to rest against the taller's chest anyway, just where the heart lies. He lets it rest there for a moment as their gazes lock, long enough to convey the dread that still eats away at his soul.

Silence hangs, but this time it is with comfort and the promise of something yet unknown. Far, far away from here.

Blood Everywhere — Accepting.

Gyumin watches the crimson line bloom across his skin, sharp and stinging for a breath before it dulls into a slow burn. The ghost of the knife lingers, and then — oh, how fitting — the sender's tongue drags across its edge, savoring him as though the taste itself were a victory.

The ache across his ribs doesn't quite sting as much as it tickles, perhaps due to the threads already mending themselves with a blueish glow, a product of a spell long cast to preserve his physical form.

For a moment, the lab stills. The candles gutter, glass hums with faint vibrations. Then Gyumin tips his head back and laughs. Not a bark, not a snarl, but a rich, delighted laugh that echoes from the stone walls like bells struck out of tune.

"Ah, so that's the game, is it?" He msues, eyes bright as embers, as though he'd been waiting for this all along. His hand flexes, the torn flesh knitting itself together with threads of black-gold light that coil and snap like lazy serpents. "A little revenge for the bottle, mm? Clever, clever. You do realize I only gave Baekhyun that particular brew to prove a point. Who knew your temper would be the one to stumble first?"

He steps closer, unbothered by the sting, by the intimacy of the gesture. There's something teasing in the way he tilts his head, lips curling in a jester's grin. "But you flatter me, Zero. Truly. My blood isn't meant for such crude delights, yet you lap it up as if it were finer than the spirits I slipped into your cup."

The last of the wound seals itself with a faint hiss, the skin whole once more. Gyumin flicks his wrist, sending a few drops of blood to spatter harmlessly onto the floor, like he's dusting away spilled wine. His eyes glimmer, amused and unbothered.

Thunderbolts Sentences — Accepting.

Raindrops drum against the cold windows, their steady rhythm filling the silence between them. Above Seoul, a thunderstorm rages, moonlight struggling to pierce the shroud of storm-laden clouds. The night had been quiet as he lingered over another glass of wine at home — until the disturbance came: a ringing phone, a mumbling voice on the other end, asking for aid.

So now here he stands, the dim light of a single lamp painting the room gold, but it doesn't hide the shadows crawling deeper under the bed — where the problem has been sulking for hours.

Baekhyun leans against the doorframe, a little too composed for someone who has clearly been called in as backup in the middle of the night. His coat drips from the storm, a slow trail of water puddling at his feet, but he doesn't seem bothered. If anything, the amused tilt of his mouth only deepens when he takes in the scene: Zero scowling, arms crossed, refusing to admit he's rattled.

"You mean to tell me you don't want to know if cats can talk? Lame." Baekhyun drawls, stepping closer, the storm's growl outside punctuating his words. His hand brushes a strand of wet hair from his face as he casts a look at the bed. "I can just have Chanyeol enchant a charm. Maybe we can listen to its thoughts."

Truth be told, he could easily guess why the small kitten had been hiding. And of course, he could just blurt it out to Zero — but where would be the fun in that? Instead, the elder lets it play out, hoping that maybe this way, the two of them might warm up to each other faster than slugs.

"Well..."

She takes a deep breath, lips pursed, thought in the sky as she recalls a moment of pure embarassment. Although one can say she didn't know any better; as innocent as she is, she thinks, from time to time, all odds are against her, and this was one of them.

"I once thought...I could ride a motorcycle because I'm a bike expert." she points out, pointer finger out as if she was stating a fact. "But I thought wrong..." she adds, lips pursing further into a pout.

The manor's halls were silent save for the drag of boots across stone, a smear of blood trailing behind them. Baekhyun pushed the door open with his shoulder, carrying Zero into the room that passed for a clinic in this house — whitewashed walls, steel counters, cabinets stocked with gauze and glass vials.

The smell of antiseptic clung here, sharp against the iron tang of blood.

He set Zero down on the narrow cot, the sheets already stained where crimson spread beneath him. Torn flesh gaped across his ribs, skin mottled with bruises that painted him from collar to hip. For a halfling, he'd fought like a rabid animal — but Baekhyun could still hear the sound of Leo's blows landing, each one shaking bone.

Baekhyun's hands moved with a predator's steadiness as he tore the shirt wider, cloth ripping beneath his fingers. He pressed gauze hard into the wound, ignoring the sharp hiss that broke from Zero's teeth. "Stay still." He breathed out, voice low, but firm. The blood welled stubbornly, seeping hot against his skin.

"You really think clawing at Leo proved anything? It doesn't fucking matter who started it." His gaze lifted, pale and cutting, the curve of his mouth flat with disdain. He worked methodically, binding the wound, the motions clinical, detached — but his grip never faltered. "Your pride will get you killed."

He tied the bandage tight, too tight, just to make the point. The silence stretched with the crackle of rain against the manor windows, until Baekhyun leaned closer, his voice dropping softer, sharper. "Learn to step back from fights you can't win. Leo won't hold back. And I won't always be here to drag you out of the mess you make."

He sat back at last, crimson still staining his fingers, eyes lingering on the other with a flicker of something unreadable. "Remember that. Pride tastes sweet... until it turns to blood in your mouth."

She's been feeling feverish lately, the amount of work she has in the museum slowly took toll on her body. Being the only one who could trail the narrow history of Japanese art, she was tasked to do more than her work, and it landed her in this state.

There's a small cloth rested on her forehead, damped in cold water in attempt to cool her body down from the high temperature she couldn't seem to ignore anymore. If it wasn't for him catching her mid-walk toward her apartment, she probably would have been found laying on the streets, unconscious.

Aki adjusts herself from the bed, despite living in Seoul for a little over five years, she couldn't help but still feel strange in the city. Her identity had been closed to the public, and only a handful know where she was, including him, her sworn protector. "Haru, you really don't have to-" she hears his tongue click, and she knew right away that he wouldn't take no for an answer.

It's endearing, truth be told, to be cared for as she lived thousands of miles away from her home. As unfortunate as she wants to deem herself to be, she couldn't help but feel at least lucky to have a familiar face to see every now and then. She shifts closer to the edge of the bed, reaching for his hand, which was cold to the touch. She wonders why from time to time but the way she knew he wouldn't tell her anything even if she asked nicely, prevents her from wanting to know more. This is enough, she thinks, as she gently presses the flat of his palm against her cheek. Her fever almost subsiding in effect.

Where It Hurts Starters — Accepting.

The last rays of sunlight bled over the horizon as a chilling breeze howled through the trees, rattling branches until their leaves tore loose and scattered. The evening's plan had been simple: to analyze a new set of wine bottles freshly arrived from Italy. That was, until a certain scent reached him before its source could — putrid, rotting. Familiar.

"You smell like a corpse." There was no greeting, no acknowledgment of the presence now in the room. Just words, blunt and factual, though not meant to wound.

His gaze darted to Zero before the glass of wine could even reach his lips, a barely audible sigh filling the silence between them. It reminded him of Jimin — that unwavering facade, the reluctance to crumble even as venom ate away at their insides. Of course they would be siblings, two peas in a pod.

Zero's breath came in uneven bursts, his jaw tight, but the attempt at composure faltered when his knees buckled. Baekhyun crossed the room in a blur, catching him before he hit the floor. His hands found the hunter's side, pressing against torn fabric now damp with blood. But it wasn't just blood. The flesh around the gash was dark, veins spidering outward like black ink under glass.

"Poison, huh?" The word left Baekhyun's mouth in a hiss, more accusation than observation. "And it's not healing." His gaze flicked up to meet Zero's, sharp and unyielding.

Zero grimaced, shaking his head. "I didn't think anyone would notice..."

"You should know better than to try hiding something from me." Baekhyun shot back, lowering him onto the couch with care at odds with his clipped tone. He brushed his fingers over the corruption, watching how the tissue recoiled at his touch.

From the cabinet near his wine, he retrieves a vial — crystal-clear liquid that shimmered faintly under the dying light. Something not meant for casual company. He uncorked it with a twist, and the scent of ozone and crushed herbs spilled out, sharp enough to cut through the stench of decay.

Bloody Prompts — Accepting.

The kitchen was warm with more than just the oven's heat — papers from the mission brief were spread across the counter between bowls of sugar and half-measured flour, crumbs of intel mingling with crumbs of dough.

Baekhyun had been mid-sentence about the guard rotation schedule when the faint curl of smoke drifted past his nose. At first, he ignored it, too intent on pointing out the weak spot in the patrol map glowing on his tablet. But then the scent thickened, sharp and bitter, clinging to the air like it meant business.

They both turned toward the oven at the same time.

Zero, as usual, was the first to speak when smoke began slithering past the fissures of the oven like the prelude to a fire. Baekhyun's figure materialized by the source in a matter of seconds, hurriedly bursting open the small glass door — only to be met with a puff of hot smoke that swallowed him whole. Coughs broke the dead silence of the room, drawing the attention of a once-slumbering pup somewhere in the living room.

Baekhyun's brow arched. "A me problem?" He slid the mitts on, pulling out the tray with the theatrical care of someone presenting a corpse. "You're the one who wanted homebaked cookies. This—" He gestured at the blackened lumps. "is as much of a you problem as it is mine."

The smoke was already curling toward the ceiling. He popped the window open with a quick shove, letting the humid city air flood in. "Now hurry before Moon catches a whiff and comes running to vacuum the burnt crumbs. Last thing I need today is my dog getting sick."