#personally I’m weak for San as any feline hybrid

[littleocean-rose]

I had some thoughts-

[forsaken-city-rp]

Welcome to the Forsaken City!

We’re glad to see that you have arrived safely within the city limits.  You have three days to make your facebook and add the admins Z.Tao, Hoseok, and Seunghyun.  But be careful, the sun is rising quickly, and hunters are always on the move.

NAME, STAGE NAME, AND GROUP:  Kim Hanbin, B.I, IKON

AGE: Nineteen (Immortally & Physically)

SPECIES:  Rakshasa (Vampiric/Man-Eating Tiger Demon) & Bakeneko (Cat Spirit) Hybrid

LIT RP SAMPLE:  

The lights spilled and glinted across the black plane of the stage like a sea of ruby blood, painting the shadows of the club with a crimson haze that danced with the smoke of cigarettes and pulsed with the low, thunderous bass.  And to equally thunderous applause that left his hearing kissed with a painful but beyond satisfying and oh-so addictive high-pitched whine, B.I (as he wasn’t Hanbin anymore, not here, not after the sun had set, not while his heart raced in time with the beats and adrenaline coursed through his veins like a drug) dropped his mic from wicked claws, took his bow with a smile as bright as the very stars —even if those golden eyes of his remained dangerously back-lit, reflecting the light as any cat would with sparks of fire flaring behind his irises—and prowled off the stage.  Beads of sweat rolled down his bared throat as he snagged a bottle of water and chugged it down, head tilted back, the curve of his adam’s apple dipping with each desperate swallow, and the drips that escaped his pretty lips entangled themselves with them, leaving shimmering trails across his bare chest.  His sun-blessed skin was wet and glistening, fuck, his hair was a wild mess, completely and utterly soaked, but honest to god he couldn’t find it in himself to care.  He was still riding out his high, the joy he felt performing, spitting out words laced with everything that he was, and the gilded medal and handful of cash he’d been tossed for his win in that night’s rap-battles were more that adequate compensations for how hot the lights had been, for the tank top he’d ultimately had to tear off and throw to the crowd, for the dull aches he could already feel blossoming to life in his thighs from jumping, running, dancing out his passions on stage, and the burn in his throat and lungs in ravenous need for some slow, deep breaths, more water, rest.   Fuck, he loved it all so much.   Bowing politely to everyone who passed by or paused to congratulate him, the teen, now off-stage, was a completely different person.  His gaze had softened out, his proud, confident, fiery expression melted into a tired, almost blissed-out one.  He thanked the MCs, complimented his opponents (even if they told him to go fuck himself, which he only smiled and nodded in response to before slinking off), and then retreated backstage to clean himself up, change his clothes, catch his breath.  What walked in was a beast, clad in tight black jeans that hung dangerously low on his hips and a pair of (subtly) platformed combat boots, shirtless, muscles rippling, abs like something out of a wet-dream.  What walked out was a boy, messy hair toweled dry and fluffy, soft, a large hoodie swallowing up his broad shoulders and form, leaving him looking nice and small, his shoes switched out for an old, well-worn and comfy set of converse that took away the few inches he’d cheated out of his boots, a backpack slung over one shoulder and a pair of headphones covering up his ears.  It was quite the transformation, one he made just about every night.  It wasn’t necessary, but fuck he wasn’t about to walk around at what, four in the morning (?) like that, not when he had a long-ass walk back to his shitty little apartment, sans car, and not when he had zero plans of doing anything else but getting home, falling into bed, and crashing.  He didn’t give a fuck if the duality made his observers question his ‘realness’ and wonder if he was a poser, some weak-ass, sweet little boy parading around like a monster to hide away insecurities or the simple fact that he really was just soft and fake.  It didn’t matter to him, he knew who he was, the name B.I carried that truth like a battlecry, and they could think whatever they fucking wanted, cause either way, he still walked out each and every night, the victor of whatever match the underground circuit had set him up with.  

The walk home was comfortable, music flooding his ears through the headphones and giving him a nice beat to step along with, and it helped that it was a familiar path, one he more or less followed at least three times a week, if not more.  When he’d first started out rapping, first found his love and talent for it, fuck, he’d tried to do showcases, battles, cyphers, every night of the week.  But ultimately the lack of sleep and the complete and utter exhaustion such a routine had left him with made him severely rethink his life choices upon passing out on the floor of kitchen for circa forty-eight hours (give or take).  Now he did his best to limit himself; six per week was the max.  He’d never claimed to be good at self-restraint and care, okay.  And it wasn’t like he didn’t have other hobbies, other things to do.  He worked as a barista at a cat-cafe a few blocks down the street every Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday to cover rent, did independent shit as a producer for just about anyone in the underground or hip hop scene who asked, wrote music in his downtime.  He did normal teenage-boy shit too; he played video games, ate shitty food, skateboarded around when the weather was nice, took hella naps (though that last part, arguably, was a little less normal, a little less human).  But still.  Performing?  Fuck it was his everything.  Music, it was his life.  

Speaking of music, it could decisively be determined in hindsight that the shit blaring in his ears held the blame for the fact that he didn’t hear anyone following after him.  His eyes were half-closed and heavy lidded, head nodding lazily to the beat, pretty lips mouthing along to the words, thoughts a million fucking miles away.  The only thing that alerted him at all was a smell, one of steel and gunpowder, but honestly in this part of the city that shit wasn’t too out of the ordinary, so while it did set him a touch on edge, he didn’t pay it much mind.  He turned down an alley, taking his usual shortcut.  And the the gun went off, of course, the sound piercing through his music with ease, leaving his sensitive ears screaming simultaneously ‘what the actual fuck’ and ‘have mercy’, a bullet grazing by his upper left thigh just close enough to burn and cut before implanting somewhere in the wall beyond him.  Whoever it was was a terrible shot, but fuck, it still hurt.  He whipped around to find a man behind him, one he recognized a few times from the club circuit.  He’d introduced himself to the rapper too, a couple of times, asked for his name and smiled at him, bought him drink, and everything.  He’d never seen like a bad dude, just a regular who had spared Hanbin a word from time to time, and the teen appreciated it.  It wasn’t like he had any friends in the underground, not really.  Everyone either hated him, wanted to fuck him, or both.  And that hurt more than the bullet.  Oh how he loathed to kill anyone whose face and name and voice he knew.  It was so much easier to take faceless, nameless strangers, ones who had it coming, of course, but who would also be much harder to recognize and remember in the dreams he’d have about them later, ones who’d haunt him a little bit less.  He hated killing, period, but at least when it was anonymous he feel a little bit less awful over it, a little less guilty, a little less damned. But oh well.  What else was he supposed to do? The hunter (for that was what he was as the tiger determined by the collar, leash, and rope in his non-gun-holding hand and the look in his eyes that just screamed ‘I’m going to make so much money off of you, you stupid animal’) fired at him again, but by that point it was too late, he’d missed his first shot, lost his chance to take the beast by surprise, and the feline demon he’d so greatly underestimated had already pounced, claws piercing through his flesh and wicked fangs tearing out the bastard’s throat as he drank down mouthfuls of sweet, delicious blood.  The man was dead before he hit the ground, left in a pool of gore as the tiger forced himself away, not wanting to lose himself in bloodlust and/or be found when others came, alerted by the sound the shot had made in such a public space.  So he left the body, even if instinct was screaming at him to feast, devour the man, taste his heart, and instead ran off into the night, the volume of his music cranked up to the max in a painful, head-ache inducing attempt to drown out the world and forget that he wasn’t human for just a little bit longer.