kim jooyoung daphnis, 24, alpha of kintsugi, water taster. “I didn’t want to fall in love or need someone. I really didn’t want anything.
But then, you appeared and I started wanting everything.”
in the scenario where an individual would ask jooyoung to turn them into his kind, the points brought up against would be something like this:
why? and have you truly considered the consequences? while lending an ear and listening to the reasons behind such willingness — something he would never be able to fathom because the cases he most often learns about are those forced against their will into this lifestyle. the things he would give if he could return to a life before this sort of heartache.
it's not as great as it seems. yeah, one will become stronger, faster, senses heightened but at what cost? not everyone will be blessed with control and sanity during the moon. the overwhelming sensations and emotions; the darkest sides of humanity manifested into reality with no system to shut it down. the bloodlust, the violence, then waking up human and the overwhelming guilt that envelops. this is torment, even when you are more blessed than the rest. this is responsibility and lives at stake. this is watching people you care for hurt others and themselves. so why would you want this for something as insignificant as power?
the notion of imprinting may be romantic but the reality is far from it. jooyoung has only been sincerely scared twice in his life: the first change when he had no inkling as to what was happening and when he first imprinted. never had he been so frightened in his life because it is all the emotions at once — love, devotion, loyalty, and possessiveness. what was even worse was the lack of certainty that it could be reciprocated but an tattoo to the soul cannot be clawed off nor changed at will. it's too late. don't make a mistake. not every soul is fortunate. until death do we part; do you not smell the irony?
so no. no way in hell is he going to become the instrument of change, directly make someone into a thing like him. ask someone else. but, regardless of your choice, he'll take you in unlike the sire who abandoned him. make sure you know everything necessary for survival before he sends you out again because he knows how cruel the world can be when you first cross the border, first taste the darkness inherent in every soul.
it is a mystery how things in front of your nose are the ones most often missed. the bakery is located on the same road you travel to and from work yet it isn’t till today do you register its existence. it isn’t until you wonder if yura would enjoy a slice of cake do you notice it, wondering under what pretense could you gift it to her.
the bell tinkles above your head, aroma envelops you and you think it was such a pity to not have visited sooner. eyes take in the bakery before they settle upon the baker himself.
you should have visited sooner.
a voice full of soul, amplified by bathroom acoustics, and for a moment you see yourself wading into a river and letting yourself be carried away. drowning doesn’t seem painful when it is the lethe you surrender to. curiosity urges you forward, taking a glimpse at the reflection in the mirror — you’ll never forget. you can still recall the song with clarity.
this is how you wedged yourself into his life, breaking your mold and the inherent awkwardness you carried yourself with, slipping into the chair beside him in class. a self-introduction, a scramble to keep a conversation going, and weeks and weeks of putting effort into cultivating this. hesitance lost as an arm is thrown over shoulders and you think it must be fate when houses are located in the same direction for an excuse to continue conversation until you reach his home.
bolder or perhaps this is the natural process of things. you divulge — too much but never enough. you talk about a career on stage, of admiring fans, of selling your soul for those few minutes where everyone’s eyes are trained on you. this is what you were made for.
( you think this is what he was made for as well. to share this with you. )
the seat next to his is always occupied by you. elbows taking up space on his desk, leaning over whenever you forget your textbooks, scribbling into the margins of his journal because you weren’t sure how else to show affection. this was the first. so you signed your name in his journal because one day i’ll be famous.
( because one day you’ll write a song for him. so please, remember me. )
when you were seventeen, you dreamed that one day he would be persuaded to join your band.
when you were seventeen, you were so confident in what the future would hold for you.
and then when you were seventeen, she took it all from you — your dreams and your best friend.
occasionally you wondered what it would be like if you visited him. would he still be where he used to live? would he smile at you and welcome you back after the years of silence?
what would you say to him? could you be sure that you wouldn’t harm him?
there are claws threatening to protrude from fingers, a bloodlust that cannot be quelled, and a human too important to be at stake.
yet years later, here you are; some kind of twisted reunion because fate has a sense of humor. nostalgia drags you under and you would rather act than let this chance slip away again. things might have changed but the memories remain. hesitance never existed in his presence anyways.
“heesun,” you exhale, the syllables rolling off your tongue so naturally it feels like coming home.
a mind scrambling to piece things together, like staring at puzzle fragments and hoping pattern recognition will emerge, but the larger picture still manages to escape. lacerations riddling skin, matted fur, fractured bones, a dislocated shoulder yet still no story. perhaps there will never be spare for glass shards and teeth marks — signs of violence, signs of conflict, signs of you slammed into a wall and
the head throbs, a minor concussion if you’re lucky. but this is what you asked for and this is what you receive.
you probably should pay iza-sama a visit. hospitals are too fussy, ask for too much as if prying you apart and figuring out your past will somehow allow them to fix you better. it doesn’t. at the end of the day you are barely held together by stitches, hollowed out by their words, a reminder that you are less than human.
contortion of skin, remolding of bone, retracting of hair and fuck —
the pain, the nerve endings, the synapses working over time as a whine finds its way out of your system and your knees give into your weight. you are more broken than you expect or perhaps you should have known. this is merely just a physical reflection of your true self.
the transition back to the creature is easier (and perhaps it always has been). grasp at your roots and pray you’ll get to her place in one piece. the options are narrowing, the city is waking up so run boy run.
and you do. surrendering to instinct as you ignore the cries of muscle and bone, protesting for rest, focusing on the ground beneath your paws. rough, cement, nothing like the dirt you are used to in this form.
you forget the core can take so much before it melts. direction lose their meaning when senses are overwhelmed. there’s one more distinct than the rest. the world narrows to the head of a single pin, the one that makes your chest expand, flood itself with warmth. the city melts away. so do you, unravelling at the edge, until you are on your knees before her.
He used to think that he wanted to be good, he wanted to be kind, he wanted to be brave and wise, but it was all pretty difficult. He wanted to be loved, too, if he could fit it in.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is the Night (via wordsnquotes)
gold pools into the cabin car, frames of light stitching into a continuous stream, harmonizing with the quiet bumps over train tracks. a tin bento box sitting in your lap and for a second you think you are going home. but home means mother and warm smiles and being a person you’re not. it means putting your family at jeopardy and this is the irony: strangers have a lesser chance of harming them than their own son.
you can’t go home, so where are you going?
nowhere.
exactly.
after all, this is just a dream.
when was it again? the last blue moon?
( and how are humans in awe of such a phenomenon when it brings nothing but pain and carnage ? )
when you were young and still full of foolish ideas: taking the train to the country side, secluding yourself in the mountains, becoming just a number with the backpackers that visit every year. but the lack of demographic research could have led to tragedy. you were lucky that when you came to, all that surrounded you was animal carcasses (mostly because you refuse to think in what ifs).
then again, nothing will be as bad as the first few moons. young and naive you were when you ingested sleeping pills in hopes of slumbering through the full moon. yet natural instincts and circadian rhythms will forever be stronger than medication (you forgot about heightened metabolism characteristic of your kind). a fevered state and an abandoned bed as you tried to fight off the effects to no avail. the snarl from the alpha as its claws dug into your shoulders, trying to pull you out of the half trance, snapping at your savior:
this is why you should have left him alone.
( this is why you should have left him to die. )
the free-falling, the withdrawal symptoms, the weaving — in and out — of forms. the scrambling, nails seeking for holding in cliffs, and the ultimate plummet because nothing is strong enough to sustain your weight. heat of fusion is reached, you melt away and conform to the alpha’s commands.
you wake: a shivering and naked mess with ears ringing with the words i’m sorry but…
you understand. there’s no one to blame for your stupidity.
call it karma, call it fate, but even your goddess cannot come to your aid this time around.
give in and for a second you think he’s still here, cradling your head, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear, goading you to embrace and accept the creature. and if it displeases you then don’t dwell on it. make it a symbiotic relationship. don’t think too much. indulge. the tide rises, wade out to greet it, let the current pull you under and sweep you away. the lulling sounds of waves lapping against sand has always been your favorite anyways.
but this was when you still borrowed skin in exchange for sustenance for your soul.
he still tastes bitter against the back of your throat.
don’t give in but don’t fight it either. what options are left?
there’s a neat pile of clothes fastened to a branch. habits are hard to break but at least you can trust others to stop you. hunters will be on call tonight; the fail safe is eternally trespassing boundaries and having your own kind tear you to shreds. anything will work as long as it prevents casualties.
how pathetic.
how weak.
and yet you still desire to have a pack of your own ?
Naturally your lips upturn upon seeing the return of a familiar face, granting his usual wish with a simple nod of the head. It’d only been an hour into your shift, the stars in the sky still shining a new, yet you inhale your first breath of air, the suffocation of your conscious caused by the atmosphere of your workplace to ease – so little, yet enough to make a difference. Quiet, though you welcome his company, more so than any other patron. He was a refreshing soul. Typically you had your questions, though you’d never force such a hand; sharing and trust was a privilege you had to earn.
It’s when you turn to face him, eyes crinkled at the corners, drink in hand, that you’re caught off guard for the first time in what seemed like an eternity in your line of work. Yes, people do question about your day or even go as far as your life, though most queries were followed with remarks that made your stomach curl. You love what you do, no doubt about it, though just like any other job, it had its plentiful cons.
For a moment a puzzled expression raises your features, though it’s only a mere second later petals are caught in yet another smile. Miniscule, though the inquiry was far more appreciated than most, and you are greatly pleased to indulge his curiosity. “Well I stepped in some gum this morning during my run… I argued over the phone with my mother for a bit, then my cat knocked over two of my potted plants…” Your words pause if only for a moment, broadening your smile with shrug of the shoulder.
“But another child was born and someone in the world is at their happiest, so I guess you could say it was good day.”
Eyes glance to your left, then your right to assure your company wasn’t or wouldn’t be requested of by anyone else, allowing your weight to comfortably shifting and lean against the countertop as your chin nestled itself within the warmth of your palm. You still held your smile. “How about yours? I’m betting it was way more interesting than mine.”
Books are meant to be read — from cover to cover — the fine print and the blank spaces in between, the subtext, the syntax, how the author’s brain worked as they pieced this together bit by bit: a letter after a letter, a word after a word, a sentence after a sentence. Then comes the paragraphs — erased, rewritten, rearranged to give birth to chapters and finally this 500 page volume sitting by your bed side.
Books are meant to be read but humans
Oh humans are meant to be understood.
Like the one before you. Like her.
So you trace the curvature of her lips in your mind’s eye and try to delve into the lines that could separate a brow from the next. But they seem to be nonexistent, her words light as if it was just any other day.
( what did you want? for reddened eyes and you to rescue her from pain?
what a monster you are jooyoung. an opportunist; just another scum of the earth.
how are you better than the monsters who sink their teeth into flesh for pleasure?)
She leans forward. It is not a dream. Her scent altered, pure now without the mark to taint her.
You inhale.
Petrichor you note, savoring the foreign word on your tongue as it finds residence in your lungs and under your skin. You think salvation would be a perfect synonym as rain cleanses the city for once (even if you know otherwise). Perhaps you would be running under gray clouds if not for proper human conduct. A light blue umbrella gripped in your fist as you allow careless droplets to drench your elbows. You think you could spend the day home with a cup of coffee, facing the windows as you observe the droplets against window panes like a scene excerpted from a music video.
But rain has always been like the color blue. What could represent peace for one individual is depression for another.
There’s a girl on the steps and judging from the angle of her head and the placement of her arms, you think she might be crying. Trivialities of the individual don’t bother you lest they decide to dump a unwanted history upon you. Yet there’s a twinge in your chest that gives her away and you drown under the sudden influx of conclusions.
What was once serenity now becomes sadness.
A broken heel. A shift in her scent. It doesn’t take Sherlock to put these pieces together so you say stay here and hand her the umbrella. So you run to the nearest store with her broken heel in hand trying to find something for her bare feet. So you buy a pair of flats and slip them on for her and tell her to keep them, both the umbrella and the shoes. Then you flee because this is where you grow weak and the knees and realize that you are nothing but a stranger.
Exhale.
Your turn to grab the microphone and although anxiety was never part of your childhood dreams the flutter of the chest and the drop of the stomach is undeniable here. Do you say I was worried about you? or I couldn’t sleep or I prepared for this and now I’m coming up empty.
You have that effect on me.
What a creep. Carried away but circumstance, getting ahead of himself and—
You smile. Trying to match hers.
“Nothing much happens when you taste water for a living,” you add a shrug before taking a sip. “So I read a book and lazed around. And now I’m here.”
you seek solace in an isolated room, sturdy, built for destruction with accumulated abuse apparent in its four walls. a moon, after a moon, after a moon. those three lines were from two moons ago, the screech of metal under your claws was almost enough to make you stop. almost. that indent was from nearly six months ago and ended in an dislocated shoulder as you whimpered in your furry form.
of course she healed you. she always does. and then peace washes over you, numbing the discomfort and silencing violent thoughts.
this is haven. this is home.
until nature started to protest and you had a sample of what could have been. it's homing instinct displaced into a certain individual. but what can you do when you are nothing but a pathetic excuse for a werewolf?
to rule others, you must first rule yourself. to guide others, you must first find yourself.
you sit in the ruins of your own making, human skin shivering without the protection of fur. eyes recording the damage done out of fury, longing, jealousy, and desperation. how can you lead when you will be nothing but a burden to your pack? how can you lead when you are asking them to carry your weight? no individual should ever ask someone else to carry their burdens for them. how selfish, how quick to bring the other to ruin.
there's a soft click as the door unlocks. this is her home after all. you look at her, barely able to see her outline through the wall of tears.
how selfish of you to not consider how much of your weight she has had to put up with all this time. a simple realization but guilt slips under the skin and your lips quiver in apology.
“am I heavy iza-sama?” voice breaks. you try to find it again.
“wouldn’t it be easier if you never had let me in?” save yourself. leave me be. you hope she hears your silent pleas.
1) clean and disinfect the area
2) dress the wound with a sterile pad or gauze
Stolen are chances but without coincidence nothing ever happens. Routines can be established or disrupted, nothing is ever guaranteed. There’s a familiar figure with a cup of americano. Is it nostalgia or sentiment that compels you to join him? Either way you do. It’s been a while, never makes it past your lips as you observe the individual between sips of coffee. Here is where you try to read his recent activity from the length of the nails, here is where you try to deduce his well being based on the creases in his shirt.
“You seem to be doing well,” slips, barely processed by the brain. Rarely are words unmeasured, consequences not considered. Few are those who can render you careless. You blame sentiment, you blame affection, but nothing can reel words back in so you continue: “A pack seems to do you good.”
Give yourself away but you’ve only ever wanted to wish him well.
nine.
There is no reason to keep your wits about you when there is no need to. But at the same time you don’t wish to succumb to the creature that lurks within so you surrender yourself to her where emotions are tranquilized. Head cradled in her lap and fingers thread through hair in the semblance of motherly comfort. This is the alternative to listening to the howls of your kin and being unable to do anything about it.
He has a pack, you convince yourself, he doesn’t need you.
So you opt to stay indoors and far away lest you become Tantalus in a pool of water with fruits dangling above your head.
He can’t be yours, he belongs elsewhere.
And even if he didn’t, what could you do about it?
A man can’t take care of anything if he can’t take care of himself.
A pack of two has no home to return to.
A pack of two cannot be called family.
You bury yourself in her scent for every cycle of the moon, deterring yourself from running to the edge and hoping to catch a glimpse or an excuse to whisk him away.
eight.
You are a hair’s breadth from Jongno’s boundary. Straining your ears, nose, eyes to no avail because the feedback comes up empty. Pacing becomes the best strategy as you weigh your options.
A lone wolf is a dead one.
Perhaps it would have been better if you never allowed anything to begin.
seven.
Aching souls require substitutes to act as painkillers. His blood is eternally degrees colder than yours, immortalized before it is tainted. He was severed from the chance of corruption, preserved before the soul withers.
Habits are hard to break even though you can’t quite leech off his warmth. But this space is used for more than physical contact:
You tell him about the boy ( like you ) a high school senior ( like you ) plucked before maturity ( like you like you like you )
and how you’ve been watching over him.
He calls you puzzling and questions why you won’t put your nature into better use by nurturing a pack of your own. Fingers find their holding in the fabric of his shirt, head resting at the base of the neck, allowing the body to conform to the shape of his spine. “Why would I need a pack,” you tell him, “when I have you?”
Leo is your pack but the reciprocation and the understanding of what it means will never be the same. The boy acts as both a reminder and a promise — what a happy curse indeed.
six.
It was a cup of americano and nothing else. Sweets and light snacks don’t seem to be favorable. You seat yourself in his periphery as if hoping proximity would allow for some familiarity or recognition.
Your eyes never leave the newspapers until his footsteps are far away for fear of confirmation.
five.
Amidst a sea of books, he was reading the Da Vinci Code today.
four.
Compulsion is the driving force, this is what you tell yourself when paws tread a familiar path. You aren’t tracking his scent, you just happen to—
When the moon stands still between waxing and waning, primal instinct overrules social conduct. You’ve been blessed — a nobody now at the top of an hierarchy. Others are not so fortunate and this is where worry stems from. It is far too easy to surrender for the likes of you, then what about the rest?
Keep your head under water, let the tide pull you in.
( no no no no no )
This time around there’s a good enough reason to keep your wits about you. You only hope that your voice is half as compelling as his alpha’s.
It’s okay now, you say.
You are okay now.
You aren’t a patient creature but the wait was less painful than expected. Shallow breaths of slumber, fur that tickles your nose, and a scent that can only be described as warm envelops you. The body twists as it curls around the younger one’s frame. A head nestles as ears remain alert.
You wait until he wakes again. Abandonment was not grafted into your bones.
three.
The guise of normalcy is easy to assume in a crowd of humans. Headphones and the sense of being occupied, a student in a library, and a book splayed in front. Now enters an almost stranger with a library card, browsing book shelves, before selecting a volume and seating himself directly across the student.
There’s no reaction and you smile. He’s too young for your scent to act as a stimulus of sorts.
two.
Incessant are apologies although none of them should be yours. A mind becomes restless similar to that unnerving sense that overwhelms on full moons. To settle it can mean many things and you choose one more in tune with your character: inspection.
Somehow reality always fail expectations and you begin to think in ifs when a wolf trails behind.
( his scent matches what was embedded in your nails — a reminder of your diseased soul )
The first few changes are always the hardest. It is out of pity that the nose nudges the runt, encouraging in silence to keep up. There are rules every wolf must follow and it is not your duty to outline them. You press into his side, allowing warmth to be interpreted as consolation and understanding, reassuring him that he’ll fall in with them soon enough. The adjustment period won’t take more than a year at most.
When their scents are close enough you urge him forward. You don’t say farewell.
one.
Tardiness is inexcusable in the real world: you arrive a moment later and the boy has already been escorted and gifted. There is no place left for you.
Logically, this is where you step away and draw the line but pity is an odd thing. You wonder if this was what your savior felt when he saw your pathetic hide.
zero.
Humanity is exhaled as you wait while drowning in the pungent scent that permeates every aspect of his household. This is the alternative ; this is the price you pay to clog up an aching soul with debris. Ash falls from fingertips, an orange halo as patience begins to wear thin and you start to question whether or not leeching off warmth is worth the wait.
It is in that moment when he returns with a scent that is not his own. When you ask he says
a boy
( like you )
a high school senior
( like you )
with so much potential
( like you ) abandoned ( like you ) infected ( like you ) fated to rot
( like you like you like you like you like you )
You remind yourself that all monsters were once humans.
Grudges create creatures of the night.
Nails dig into flesh easily and you can feel the infection spread. A festering soul sputtering a string of cuss words because it can no longer see the line between right and wrong. Contamination takes place, you’ve held on for too long.
Anyone can become less than human with frightening ease.
Physical wounds will heal but not the ones to the heart. He never wants to see you again and you don’t plan on it either. Not that it matters. He’s already tainted you red.
Fingers begin to fidget, unsettling nerves as it usually foreshadows the lack of sophrosyne and one restless night. The options are simple: return to her side where emotions can be borrowed as a form of distraction or to run wild and attempt to curb nature itself. Usually, you take the path of suppression. What you are gives you the added benefit but you are still not immune to the side that compels you to not think at all.
( what is worse are the howls piercing the night, taunting how alone you truly are.
what is a wolf without his pack ? a failure. )
But it has been too long since there was dirt under your paws and an adopted soul still yearns to return to its origin. So you cave.
Clothes are folded and stacked in neat piles before they are tied to a tree branch, arms stretch to test tenacity of muscles before they are launched into an intensive workout, bones crack and reform, hair prickles the nape of your neck and everywhere else. When did this become routine? Humans weren’t meant to be creatures. The nose elongates into a snout and senses heighten by n fold because you can no longer process such ratios. The taste of dirt and the sounds from miles away used to overwhelm but now they are home. Humans have such a blissfully narrow world, you wonder if it correlates to their world views but before a theory is made you run.
You embrace this form and all that it entails. A head tilts back and a howl rips through the evening sky because consequences do not exist when you are invincible.
There are two rules you live by on nights like this:
1) Do not run into another pack’s territory
2) Do not encounter another one of your kind in this form.
hello!! forever a fish out of water when it comes to an introduction post. thank you for the warm welcomes and i'll get to them as soon as possible ❤ unfortunately, because of shadowing & studying for the mcat, it might take a bit longer than usual to get back to you all so please forgive me. i currently have an extremely rough plots page (to be fixed and added to) if you are interested. if you prefer aim over traditional tumblr messaging (bc tumblr is hungrier than our vampires here) please just hit me up! i think this is all... time to retreat into my turtle shell and please take care of jooyoung ; ^ ;
most often the single sentence uttered for an entire evening. silence is the best companion when the other option is socializiation that invites unanswerable questions and sanctuaries aren’t meant for such discomfort, even more so when the shift of mood starts when you enter bar. you know exactly the cause of such ease.
you smile. what was once courtesy now stems from the heart — an infection of sorts when you notice that she’s working tonight. the same phrase is exchanged, the only conversation you ever have with her. but how does one develop beyond this state without laying all the cards on the table, without being so painfully obvious? you like her smiles. they may not be for you but they are from the heart and this is what matters.
fingers trace the edge of the polished counter as you wait for your drink, weighing options, measuring words. the chrysalis has to be broken unless you are to surrender all hope. then what would be left of you?
( nothing )
you won’t let liquid courage influence your words. she approaches with your drink and lips part to ask “how was your day?”
instantly, regret floods your veins. you are a fish out of water, not made for conversation starters. might as well tell her i have loved you and you have not known it.
“no one ever seems to ask bartenders so i thought...” you dig yourself deeper into a hole and hope she’s kind enough to pile in some more dirt to complete this process.
