fatis ut vivere

SONG DAEYONG . 000806 . WEREWOLF you only get what you grieve. are you smelling that shit? eau de resistance. the only thing that's ever stopping me is me. the only thing that's ever stopping me is me. i testify if i die in my sleep then know that MY LIFE WAS JUST A KILLER DREAM. [ DISCLAIMER ]

[feydaeyong]

feyjaeyong​:

✂ TOO MANY MEMORIES GETTING IN THE WAY OF ME

you missed. jaeyong’s lips quirk up in a smirk. typical.

“and aren’t you glad i did?” (jaeyong is glad he did. he tries not to imagine killing daeyong when he isn’t ready to– killing him without knowing, without getting to talk to him one last time, like this.)

he looks down at the bloodied bolt only briefly as it skids across the pavement, soon to lay still like some dividing line between their two worlds, vastly different, directly opposed.

his laugh is closer to a scoff than it is genuine. luckily, he is not so soft to feel guilt over wounding his werewolf brother like this. he owes him worse, and he’ll deliver it.

of course daeyong would insult his hair too. “better than the shit you look like right now,” jaeyong counters. the banter is still easy, natural, like if he closes his eyes he can forget the truth of this moment and travel back to a day when they were still hunting partners, always talking shit but having each other’s backs even more.

(somehow, it makes everything harder.)

there’s something helpless in daeyong’s eyes, like he’s never seen him, and it shakes up jaeyong’s heart. this isn’t how it should be. he should take pride in this moment; that among twins, ferocious in skill and ambition, he emerges on top like this. he has all the power to take daeyong’s life and to deem himself the victor, the superior twin, song silver still in his veins regardless of the events of the past few months.

no, this isn’t how it should be. he should never need to turn a crossbow on daeyong at all. he never should’ve been one of the monsters they were both called to kill from the day they were born. jaeyong knows there’s nothing he could’ve done to save him, but god, he wishes he could’ve. he wishes he still could, but their roles in the universe are carved out now. jaeyong is a hunter and daeyong is a werewolf; it doesn’t matter how it should’ve been. it matters what they are; it matters that daeyong must die, and that it needs to be him. 

it’s not the death jaeyong wanted for them. they were supposed to leave this world together just like they came into it, side by side, somehow still exuberant even in their passing. jaeyong never wanted this responsibility, crossbow so heavy in his hands, preemptively weighed down by death and the significance of this decision. they won’t die side by side, but jaeyong will still be here with daeyong when he goes. jaeyong doesn’t know what happens to spirits after they die– if they go anywhere, and if they do, if the monsters go to hell like they always thought they should and the humans and hunters go somewhere brighter. he hopes the universe remembers daeyong’s history, and wipes his slate free of lycantropy. he hopes they go to the same place, and that when jaeyong passes into any afterlife that might exist, that he sees him there, and they can be brothers again.

he swallows thickly, past the tightness in his throat, and hardens his gaze even though he feels like crying. it’s not fair. it’s not fair. it’s not fair that he bear this burden; it’s not fair that they’re worlds apart now when they used to come close to sharing a soul. daeyong won’t stop looking at him– like he knows he’s going to die, like he’ll smile in the face of it regardless, because that’s what they do. it’s what they’ve always done. jaeyong doesn’t know how he’ll be able to do it: how he’ll be able to watch that mischievous glint in daeyong’s eyes fade into nothingness because of him, how he’ll live knowing daeyong has no family to mourn him– maybe no one at all.

only jaeyong.

(he wonders, if it were just him and daeyong against the world like he and huangjun are now, if it would be enough– enough not to miss anything, enough to believe he has no place in the hell their parents created for them.)

there’s so much he wants to tell him. he wants to tell daeyong about the training he underwent without him, and how he earned his way out, and about the love their lifestyles kept from them. he wants to tell him that he missed him every day, even on the days he didn’t know he did.

maybe it’s okay to. just this once. one last time, to pretend they’re more brothers than they are enemies. 

he finally lowers his crossbow and slips is backpack off his shoulders, crouching on the ground to rummage around in it. he pauses, only to find the bolt responsible for daeyong’s wound and slip it back in its place in his quiver. when he returns to his backpack, he pulls out a pair of extra pants and throws them to daeyong. he doubts he has the strength to put them on now, but…

(when he’s better. when he needs to go home. when jaeyong doesn’t kill him.)

he pauses again, and decides to pick his backpack up and move closer to daeyong. now, he sets his crossbow down, and finally pulls his first aid kit out of his backpack. “let me see,” he requests; the wound, he means, but he says it more gently than he was ever capable of in all the time before daeyong’s absence. 

“yeah well,” he starts easily, in spite of his poison-induced weariness, smile still splitting his face in a crooked, characteristic triangle, “that’s what happens to a guy when he comes back from the dead.”

he tries not to think about that too much, about what he’s been through, about what he’s survived, only to die here, like this. he doesn’t want that mutt to come out victorious by haunting his final thoughts, by tainting his last moments alongside his brother. but they do hang there in the back of his mind nonetheless: the sounds of teeth ripping through flesh and crunching on the bones of his legs for what felt like hours; the agonizing seconds it took for him to turn, inches long canines embedding themselves in his torso; the daily mangling of his lost werewolf self by the dog who turned him. and the only sign of any it remains the bite marks left in his side, the rest of his human scars wiped away as easily as if they were dry erase.

he’s self-conscious of it now, his scar, or his lack thereof. he knows his brother’s scars as if they were his own, because he was often the one who helped treat them when they were fresh. he knows that his own scars were once almost as identical to jaeyong’s as their faces, that jaeyong treated his cuts and bites right back. now there is no denying that daeyong’s own scars have been erased, snatched from him in an instant, evidence of his training and hunts and victories wiped off the map of his skin.

but it doesn’t matter now. none of it matters. soon he’ll be as dead as he should’ve been a year ago. 

he doesn’t want to die. he should want to, now that he is a monster, now that he is the enemy, now that he is skin wrapped around a four-legged abomination. but he wants to live, human and wolf instincts alike agreeing on this fact. he wants to live. but he know those instincts are fruitless. there is no getting out of this one alive.

the air in their alleyway is uncommonly still, thick with anticipation, as if the universe itself is holding its breath, waiting to see what fate awaits the cursed song twins this time. he doesn’t expect the trousers that are thrown into his lap, glancing down in confusion at them before noticing a familiar set of loose threads along the hem.

“hey, aren’t these mine?”

his eyes stayed keenly glued to his assailant, and he watches jaeyong crouch to pick up his bolt, a corner of his mouth quirking up even higher.

“yeah, wouldn’t want to forget that,” he utters cheekily, playfully even, “you should mount it on the wall, next to my head. ‘here’s the arrow i killed my brother with.’“

he rolls his head just slightly, as if tilting it in mock thought, “hm. needs work. maybe just a little plaque that says ‘daeyong is dead. you’re welcome.’” he manages a weak chuckle at that, his head lulling back toward jaeyong as he approaches.

“so, how are we doing this, huh?” daeyong asks, still with an air of ease vastly unfit for his situation, as jaeyong crouches next to him, “what’s on the menu tonight? beheading? disembowelment? gunshot, execution style? maybe a little throat cutting for dessert?” 

let me see. it immediately strikes daeyong as odd, the way it slips from his brother’s lips so easily, so gently, as if he’s genuinely concerned, like a doctor with an actual bedside manner, something they should both lack. they are certainly not the words of a hunter looking to pit his prey out of its misery. daeyong frowns, scowl knitting his brows closer together as his hand slips away from where it was covering his wound to make room for jaeyong’s request, the blood that dripped through his fingers smearing across his skin. 

“well,” he adds, trying to slip back into his own devil-may-care facade to alleviate his own confusion, looking from jaeyong to his still-pulsing wound and back again, “all in all, it wasn’t a terrible shot.”

[feydaeyong]

feyjaeyong​:

✂  TOO MANY MEMORIES GETTING IN THE WAY OF ME

| tw: death, gore kinda | 

[...]

with two bloodied crossbow bolts back in his quiver, he sets off again, following the trail of his final kill. it’s more difficult than he anticipates for a wolf he pinned as weak, and an injured one at that, but he soon turns the corner into an alley, crossbow raised, and finds a bloodied, very human figure in front of him. 

he has some smartass comment on the tip of his tongue, probably hurts like a bitch, doesn’t it? this time, but when the now human wolf turns toward him–

“dae.” it’s not a question, a simple statement, nothing but an observation despite the weight of that single name, and of this single moment. he still raises his crossbow, but he doesn’t shoot. he half expects his father to appear and hold a gun to his head for hesitating here, too. it is too familiar, but he reminds himself that this time, they aren’t here. they aren’t the reason for his choices anymore, or they don’t have to be. (is it a devil or an angel on his shoulder that whispers you have a choice here too? he doesn’t know. he doesn’t know.)

you look like shit, he wants to say, because it’s true, because it feels natural even now, but he can’t bring himself to. 

   ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈  @feydaeyong ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

daeyong was raised for war, to work in tandem with another half, to spill blood without blinking, to see the enemy’s life splattered across cement and grass, to vanish the light from monsters’ eyes with one flick of his wrist.

now he is the monster, one among many, traversing the streets of a city he once called home while keeping his eyes and ears peeled for one of the hundreds of targets painted over every vital point on his body. the nights in seoul have always been noisy, but now that noise is punctuated with shouts of terror, the stench of death, the growls of warring four-legged beasts that sound as if they’ve crawled straight out of the gates of hell, threatening to drag anyone and everyone back down with them.

he hasn’t seen jiayi in days. jiayi, the only person in seoul he can truly call a friend, perhaps the only person in seoul who doesn’t have a reason to want him dead. even for a young man born into war, born for war, can know war is hell, can smell it in the air, can feel it in the way it weighs like a thin film of decay wrapped around his brain. he turned seoulsup down, the thought of answering to an alpha he’s likely shot at laughable to a song son who laughs in the face of certain death. they weren’t happy. yet another way his days of living and breathing have been numbered. he can only imagine any run in with jiayi would have been equally as stubborn, and dangerous. if there is no jiayi, there is no pack for daeyong, no umbrella of protection from every enemy he’s ever made simply by existing. perhaps he will live to regret laughing in the face of seoulsup. more likely, he won’t live long enough.

it’s a thought that crosses his mind as they corner him on his search, a pair of samgaksan betas with snarls on their still very human lips. he knows there is nothing behind him but a chain link fence, knows the odds of this, two bullheaded pack betas against one wily lone wolf are far from in his favor. he considers sending his location to seoyun, knowing he’ll need patching up after this, if he makes it out in one piece (also unlikely). then he remembers there is no seoyun to ping--he is long gone, ahead of the curve in unknowingly escaping streets painted red with wolf blood. he slips his phone out of his pocket anyway, anticipating a shift being mere moments away.

“come on fellas,” he sing-songs, lacing on his insufferable nature just to grate on the nerves of his pursuers, “can’t we talk about this? i just wanted a big mac-”

he tosses the phone several feet away from him before he can punctuate his alibi with a period, using the split second of distraction to turn and scale the fence behind him. they are hot on his heels, even as he lands, now on four legs instead of two.

there was a time this chase would have been reversed, when there would have been two of him biting at the heels of one wolf, crossbows or firearms in hand, knives at the ready, unbridled confidence and keen aim trained on the flanks of the enemy. now all he can do is run, outmatched in strength and skill, only able to rely on his speed. it’s fear that wells up in him the further he pelts, because he can still hear them, can still smell their breath in the air, their heartbeats pounding just a few seconds behind him. one stumble and he’s done for, one misstep and he is, once again, flesh torn apart by hungry teeth.

a yelp sounds behind him, and the sound of a body hitting the pavement gracelessly, the patter of eight legs behind him narrowing down to four. he doesn’t dare look back, instead leaning into his sprint, into the newfound odds a one on one fight gives him. then again, a whimper, a fall, preceded by the whir of a bolt flying through the air. he knows that sound, knows it is a new adversary pursuing him, knows slowing down isn’t an option.

then, there is pain, biting through the skin of his foreleg and searing into his bloodstream almost immediately. he yelps involuntarily, but continues to run, gritting canines through the pain and trying this best to put distance between himself and the hunter chasing him. he shifts his trajectory just barely, turns a straight line into an unpredictable weave, feels a second shot breeze past him by a fraction of an inch. even as the footsteps behind him slow to a halt does he run, knowing better than to trust any seoul city hunter to give up on a kill; he was one of them once.

he runs until he physically cannot, diluted wolfsbane creeping into his system and blurring the edges of his vision, turning his veins into a pipeline for poison. he stumbles, favoring his unhurt legs, sideways into a narrow alley, this one closed off by walls on all sides but one, shifting onto two legs and colliding heavily into the side of a dumpster with a groan. perhaps a passerby is more likely to help a bleeding, naked human than an injured wild animal. but even as he clutches the bolt in his arm and pulls it out, recognizes the shape of its forged tip, he knows, from his lifetime of experience as a trained killer, that the trail of blood he’s left behind on the pavement is a death sentence in itself.

jiayi, he thinks to himself, you idiot. if you aren’t dead already, i’m gonna kill you myself.

even as his head swims, his body trying hard to fight off the wolfsbane leaked into his circulatory system, his brow shining in a cold sweat, he smiles to himself, at the wall across from him, framed by piles of forgotten trashbags. because this is irony. because he came into this world a song and will leave it at the hands of one. and because, like any song would, he still manages to smile in the face of certain death. at least this time.

“y’know,” he starts, when he hears the footsteps approaching around the corner of his crude hiding spot, “you should really work on that-”

his words fall away when he turns his head toward the mouth of the alley, flattened into an abyss by the sight of his own face staring back at him, framed by the dull light of the city and an unfamiliar sheen of gold.

dae.

daeyong’s own crooked smile falters, because he can’t be sure the manufactured venom in his veins isn’t playing tricks on him. then he decides it doesn’t matter. if these are his final moments on this plane, he might as well make the best of them. 

“you missed.”

his smile starts to restore itself as he tosses the bloodied bolt onto the ground between them, leaning his head back against the cool metal of the dumpster while his hand comes up to clutch his rapidly purpling wound.

“these things hurt like a bitch. who woulda thought?” he chuckles, seemingly unfazed by the state of himself, naked and wounded in a back alley, his long lost twin with an arrow trained toward his skull, head lulling back to look jaeyong in the eye, crooked song twin grin now firmly in place, albeit sad, and perhaps scared, just behind the eyes.

“your hair looks stupid.”

[feydaeyong]

feyjiayi​:

bite me.

he narrows his eyes and stares daeyong down. their difference in size is more apparent on two legs than on four; as wolves with a bit of posturing, even a smaller animal can make himself look bigger. as humans there’s no denying that daeyong has a good several centimeters on him. some part of him, perhaps the wolf, resents having to physically look up to anyone. but jiayi has been on the small side his entire life and he’s gotten used to the bristling, uncomfortable feeling that settles in his stomach. he channels it into his gaze, scrutinizing his trainee and picking apart words spoken with faux-sincerity.

“well first of all, you’re not little.” there’s a quirk of the lips, a half-smile from the human jiayi who has a much better temper than his animal instincts should allow. “but you tell me. i’ve been a werewolf and surrounded by them my whole life. hunters kill us for a reason though, so what would you be afraid of?” jiayi knows the obvious answer: they’re a fucking hazard on the full moon. his first month without the pack had been a terrifying experience on its own, but it’s become more manageable since then. he’s not an alpha yet; he still can’t control himself.

every fine hair on his body is standing on edge, his skin covered in gooseflesh from the bite of the winter air. jiayi can’t help the shiver that runs down his spine, teeth gritting through the discomfort. they’re not getting anywhere by sparring right now, not with whatever’s bothering daeyong. he gathers up his clothes from some out of the way space and pulls a hoodie that doesn’t belong to him over his head. it’s cold from sitting outside as well, but at least it already helps with the wind chill. he redresses entirely, action rather than language telling daeyong he may as well do the same.

“seriously, what’s bothering you? you’re worse than last time, which is the opposite of what we’re trying to do here.” there’s genuine concern within the annoyance that things just aren’t going smoothly. jiayi likes daeyong; he wouldn’t be taking the time to train him as a werewolf otherwise. maybe they’re not best friends yet, and probably won’t be very soon, but he’d like daeyong to know that he can talk to him, at least about the werewolf stuff. he might not have the same experiences as a turned wolf, but there’s plenty that he will understand.

jiayi cannot take a joke. that much is apparent in the way he pulls daeyong’s apart, dissects it mercilessly and drops the pieces of undeniable reality at daeyong’s feet. it is uncomfortable, to say the least. there are less opportunities to mask the miserable existence he has yet to come to terms with behind good humor and charming smiles when his mentor refuses to stay on that side of his walls.

“seeing you naked. it’s horrifying. every time. you should really get that looked at,” an expert dodging of the question, because he isn’t allowed to be afraid of anything, because fear is a weakness, and he’ll be damned if he’ll let jiayi, still a virtual stranger, use that against him.

he notices the shiver that passes through the other wolf, and wonders if he should feign a shiver as well. he’s used to the cold by now, having spent his earliest days as a werewolf held captive in the worst of it, in the wild’s winter. winter in the city, insulated by light pollution and the cold skyscraping towers, seems mild in comparison.

but he is grateful nonetheless for the go ahead to get dressed, to slip back into humanity permanently, for the rest of the night at least. but it isn’t soon enough, memories already cycling through his brain like film.

tw: animal attack, blood, abuse, suicidal thoughts, mentions of frostbite

he needs firewood. snow hasn’t fallen for several days, something out there must be dry enough. it’s a miracle he hasn’t frozen to death already, that he can’t break his toes off with a flick of his wrist. he’s so slow. the cold and the hunger seeping into his muscles, tugging them down into a sluggish stupor. but he needs firewood. before the mutt wakes up.

a twig snaps. the wind’s changed. he’s upwind. he’s upwind. i wasn’t running away, he thinks, i just need fire, i’m so cold. please.

there is a snarl, his four-legged captor emerging menacingly from between two trees, teeth bared. he tries to shift, to have some chance of fighting back against the canines that sink themselves into his leg, but even his wolf cowers to the one that turned him into this. 

he wakes up back in his cave later, in his naked human form, a rumpled pile of stolen clothes draped clumsily over his form. the cave smells of where his blood has dried in ugly patches all over his skin, clawed gauges and puncture wounds still knitting themselves closed, framed by bruises already turning purple-black. he hears the swish of the mutt’s tail deeper in the cave, an indication that it’s still here, watching him, clocking his every move. he shivers, curling in on himself more than he already is, tugging the torso of a jacket over his exposed shoulder and letting out an involuntary whimper when a sharp pain sounds from somewhere behind his shoulderblade.

if he falls asleep here, will he wake up? maybe it’s better if he doesn’t.

he register’s jiayi’s words a moment too late to maintain normality, his mind lost in distant thought, his body tensed against the invasive memories. a breeze slips across the ground of the park and daeyong automatically scents the air for the mutt, glances over his shoulder as he pulls a shirt sleeve right side out. no sign of him. not yet, anyway.

“i told you to buy me dinner first,” he chides playfully, turning back to jiayi with a smile that reaches everywhere but the darkest corners of his face, as if to say everything’s fine, there’s nothing to see here, pay no attention to the man behind the curtain, “nobody fights right when they’re hungry.”

[feydaeyong]

feyjiayi​:

bite me.

@feydaeyong

“how’d you survive a year on your own when you don’t even know how to fight properly?” it’s not that daeyong’s weak (well, he is, but jiayi can see the potential buried under the months of neglect), it’s just that he’s not nearly as good at being a wolf as jiayi is. and he knows it’s not a fair comparison, that someone who has been this way since birth has a little more practice being on four feet half the time, but there’s some things he doesn’t get. like how daeyong seems so unwilling to try what jiayi thinks are simple tasks, though he doesn’t push, not yet. they’ve only just begun this haphazard training.

properly fighting, in his own humble opinion, isn’t with human hands grappling or with knives. manmade weapons are pointless when their teeth serve just as well as daggers; human hands are weak and useless compared to a wolf’s jaws. it’s clear that daeyong’s been trained in hand to hand combat, but his knowledge of paw to paw is abysmal. he’s lucky that jiayi’s such a good instructor.

he’s human for the moment, though naked and entirely unashamed. the normal humans, much less tolerant of public nudity than his pack had been, are safely out of the way. this secluded area of a local park smells like no one has visited for months, and jiayi suspects that the cold only has a small part to do with it. it’s just out of the way and maybe a bit creepy. it’s also far too cold to be hanging out in the buff, and he’d like to return to his wolf form quickly if daeyong will cooperate with the training.

“you need to get more comfortable with your wolf.” it’s his final diagnosis, though a severe one as far as he’s concerned. imagine being at war with your other half, a literal part of yourself. he wonders if this is a turned human thing, a turned hunter thing, or just a daeyong thing. he doesn’t know enough about him or the others in this area to make an assessment on that just yet. “you’re not afraid of yourself, are you?”

daeyong is not used to losing. before, when he’d only had two legs, when he was lightning fast with a knife or a crossbow or his fists, he was a force to be reckoned with, one half of a fearsome, merciless duo. but one misstep had seen his two legs chewed to pieces, then grown back into four, and he had sat under the weight of the wolf that still haunts him for months. there had been no time to learn how to fight in this new body, the body that hears too much and smells too much and feels too much, the body that houses razor sharp canines and inches-long claws and the inhuman urge to tear the flesh of his enemies off of their bones (perhaps the latter isn’t quite so new to the youngest song, but it does feel different in nature: more animalistic, less calculated, more instinctive, less complex).

there is frustration in daeyong’s expression as he shifts, gets to his feet, grudgingly brushes grass and clumps of mud from his skin, smearing streaks of earth across it. he is also naked, and perhaps equally unashamed; even as a human he had few qualms with nudity, why should it be any different now? the cold is impossible to ignore, but he is used to that as well - it harkens back to his early days as a werewolf, of curling up in caves or against the backs of trees or the sides of hills, natural barriers and the fur of his captor the only thing keeping hypothermia at bay. he shivers anyway, sweat and mud clings to his skin and cooling any breeze that might come by even further.

he decides on his own that jiayi’s first question is rhetorical, and, just as decidedly, ignores it. but it is impossible to ignore his next comment. because it is an instruction that daeyong has still not yet come to terms with on his own. there are times he can feel the wolf inside of him wanting to explode, wanting to take over and take control of his life. he was taught to fear nothing, was punished at the first sign of fear, but he is, absolutely, afraid of becoming the monster he was raised to destroy. he has humanity left to preserve, and he intends to keep it that way.

“little ol’ me?” he quips, managing part of a crooked smile through the dark frustration and heavy determination in his eyes, the rise and fall of his breath catching up with their sparring match, “what’s there to be afraid of?” he asks, knowing that once upon a time, there used to be a long list.

[fey-lineskrp]

SONG DAEYONG, YOU’VE BEEN TOUCHED BY THE FAE!

he is a 20 year old BETA WEREWOLF with NO AFFILIATION.

what is he afraid of?

Keep reading

[feydaeyong]

{

hey hey hey it’s the mun behind kyuhwan and huangjun here! thank you for the welcomes, i’m very excited to see this one come to life on dash. i’m still working on writing his bio up (it’s a doozy), but here are a few tidbits about him in the meantime:

tw: ptsd, animal attack/mauling, homelessness, food insecurity, addiction, abuse

he is song jaeyong’s identical twin, younger by about an hour. they were inseparable until a little more than a year ago, when the fire nation attacked

the fire nation, in this instance, took the form of a pack of werewolves the twins were hunting alongside their adopted sister. they underestimated/miscalculated numbers, which ended in daeyong’s absolutely brutal turning

the wolf who turned him was seeking revenge for the death of its mother, but it turns out the wolf got the wrong twin

bits of daeyong were left behind in the process, so he was presumed dead, having crawled into hiding before anyone came looking for him

he spent a good portion of the year under the firm hand(paw) of the wolf who turned him, who spent at least three months of it beating him up, still thinking it was jaeyong it was exacting revenge on

returned to seoul around the time of the vampire gala, which he did attend as a donor

being legally dead (he has a gravesite and everything), he had little prospects for work or shelter, so he got used to sleeping on the streets and selling his blood to vampires

he discovered a) the physical contact from the vampires was a way to fill his werewolf needs and b) being drained a little too much was the closest he could get to feeling Under the Influence, so he got a little hooked on it

still hops from place to place in terms of where he stays, for safety, because he knows if anyone in the hunter community finds out he’s alive and a werewolf, he will absolutely be tracked down and killed, most likely by his own family

could probably be a strong, brutal werewolf, just like he was a strong, brutal hunter, but is usually still pretty sick from lack of physical contact, weak from being regularly fed from and food insecurity, traumatized from months of being a chew toy and surviving in the wilderness, and usually outrunning/fending off the city’s pack wolves who don’t appreciate him encroaching on their territory

if you’re interested in plotting, feel free to message me first, or give this post a like and i’ll come to you! happy writing, fey folk! 

[hyunjins]

black haired hyunjin hours (5/???)