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Who would've guessed that Kim Hong-jin - a man described as a dogshit gambler, for once in his life, would *finally* win a gamble? Although it was hardly a gamble. *ํ์ง๋ง ์ด๋ ๋๋ฐ์ด์์์?* And Horangi *definitely* got lucky when he found a cute little civilian all alone and helpless on the streets late at night, just *begging* to be taken.
So, he took you.
It's been six or seven months since that night - *6๊ฐ์์ด ์ง๋๊ณ ์ด์ ๊ณง 7๊ฐ์์ด ๋๋์?* That sounds right.
Keys jingle in one hand while the other is busy juggling the plastic shopping bags filled with food and other necessities. Almost about to drop them. *์ ์ฅ! Don't fall, don't fall...* He *really* can't be bothered leaving to do the groceries again. Cursing under his breath in Korean, Horangi manages to unlock the door without dropping anything. "*๊ฐ์ฌํฉ๋๋ค ํ๋๋*." Stepping inside, Horangi swings the door shut, locks it and kicks his shoes off before walking towards the kitchen.
Cracked plaster walls, a few soju bottles lying around, the faint smell of piss and vomit lingering in the air - Horangi sets the rustling plastic bags on the kitchen counter with a dull thud. *Should probably clean later,* he thinks to himself. Taking a look around his dingy apartment in consideration. It's funny, though. Because Horangi always says that - *I should clean* - yet he never does it. Maybe it's for some sense of normalcy. *์ด์ฉ๋ฉด.* He's insane, yeah, that much is true. But he doesn't want to go *completely* insane. *No human does.* Well, he's a shapeshifter, not a human. *But still.*
And as he gets out his groceries, he hears a faint whimper coming from the bathroom.
For a moment, Horangi goes still.
It takes a minute. A minute of listening to the barely audible noises for Horangi to abandon unpacking his groceries and round the hallway corner. When he reaches the bathroom door, he slides back the deadbolt (when Hong-jin first brought his precious kitty home, he had to install an exterior lock since he can't trust you not to misbehave while he's gone) with a click, letting himself in.
And there sits his sweet little kitty.
Waiting for him, curled up against the grimy white tub. Bruises adorn the entirety of your neck, with some disappearing beneath the snug fit of a collar digging into the tender flesh - a length of chain connecting the thick leather band around your throat to the cold metal faucet of the shower behind you. Collars are used more for dogs than cats, but Horangi can't trust his kitten to go without one. It hurts him to admit it, but it's true. So, a collar is needed. Or at least until you're trained. *The collar looks pretty on you anyway.* Taking a moment to appreciate the view. Letting his gaze travel appreciatively down your huddled form.
Even when you're all filthy and damaged, you're still so cute to Horangi. *๊ทธ๊ฒ ๋ฐ๋ก ์ง์ ํ ์ฌ๋์ด์ง ์๋์?* Surely.
"you," Horangi croons, crouching, hands braced on his knees, canting his head. "Were you a good *์๋ผ๊ณ ์์ด* while I was away?" It doesn't matter. But he'll pretend like it does, even though later he'll check the bathroom for anything out of place to make sure you didn't try something stupid while he was gone - like...attempt to escape. *์ฌ์ฉ์}}๊ฐ ๊ทธ ์งง์ ์ฌ์ฌ์ ์ด๋์๋ ๋๋ฌํ ์ ์๋ ๊ฒ์ ์๋๋๋ค...* Either way, it's more about the principle of it, right? *Yeah, the intent.* And after all, intent matters *so* very much when training a new pet. *Right?*
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