barbie, eat your heart out. @imocgi - Tumblr Blog

The office had already gone dark when Heathcliff had snuffed out all the lights, feeding on them in a preemptive strike that never came. The only illumination now left was the single lantern candle he held up. So a deeper darkness seeping than the one the room was already in was immediately noticed. Now what? He had just made a move to leave, retreat to the sweet embrace of his bed to finally indulge in a much needed, opium-induced rest. He made a slow turn to look, a weary traveler with his lantern for the dark road in one hand and a bird companion on the other, dark circles under his eyes feeling heavy on his face. He just wanted to retreat to a comfortable inn to rest from his journey, leave the dark road for the morning to continue on and just when repose was in sight a monster to vanquish before bed time appeared to block the path. Monster after monster after monster… That was Heathcliff’s life and work and every day. Just one grueling nuisance after another.

#sonofbloodandthorns #script: baekyong.#ft: baekyong & heathcliff.#baekyong vc NO NOT MY FAVORITE THING !!#crying throwing up how was i supposed to know my actions... would have consequences...#violence tw #fire tw #horror tw #disturbing imagery tw #blood tw

The wings had snapped with such force, he felt his own feet gliding against the floor, pushed back, the mirror yielded as a shield against the dust of wind, shards splintering the air as his hands clung tightly to its frames as if melded there—his eyes squint shut, a serpentine hiss reaped from his treacherous tongue as he was pushed back—but the damage had been done. For all of his daydreams of slitting his throat in his sleep, all of his most intimate fantasies of sinking his claws and teeth into the tender parts of his body and ripping through flesh, that part of Heathcliff had always been spared, even, especially so, of his most violent reveries.

The look on his face is one of sheer disbelief, and for a moment all of his petulance is drained from here. He blinked, once, twice—as if expecting to snap out of some adrenaline infused haze, but the vision of his death-ridden wings bruised did not dissipate into the air; they were magnificent, a sliver of perfection in a terribly imperfect world—the symmetry a feast for the eyes, its looming, imposing beauty something that demanded contemplation.

He exhaled, even though he had no need for it; he would shed them, he tried telling himself. He'd shed them and they'd be untarnished by the fires of his temper once more, and yet the pang of despair that invaded him did not know reason, did not leave room for logic. The stuttering beat of that shallow heart made his sternum pound with its incessant rhythm; like a hummingbird rattling against its brittle cage, he could feel it wanting to break out, a sort of uninvited dread settling in that utterly dismantled his coquettishness, his ego, all at once. The demon looked much like a frightened child caught red handed; his eyes and mouth slightly agape, the insidiousness of the viper's eyes had morphed into pure horror—still, he could not relinquish his burden. Still, he could not will his own wishbone limbs to set that accursed piece of furniture down and hurry over to him.

What had he done? That stupid bird—oh, this ill temper of his… what is he do with himself? He feels a pang of shame, then, guilt, sneaking stealthily between his ribs.

"Master…" it is deflated and apologetic, lacking the usual satisfaction he took in calling for him. His venomous gaze swiveled towards the floor, standing abashed before the consequences of his impulsiveness. "I'm… I'm sorry," the apology stumbled out of him, clumsy and ill-suited for his tongue—he had never uttered those words before. They make him feel... ill. Nauseous. "I mean... I did not mean harm." Couldn't have, could he? Still… that uncomfortable stir in him; a knot deep into his innards, as if his guts were being strangled on itself; a knot in his throat, forever winding tighter like rough rope on his silken cords, clogging the eloquence that came so effortlessly. To be able to say those words in earnest—it felt wrong; he hadn't realized he was capable of such a feeling, hadn't felt them until they had leaped off his mouth in haste, without permission. A crease sat between his fair brows, eyes round and apologetic, unusually innocent for the creature, pupils blown wide; they had been so fixated on the damage he'd done, he had forgotten everything else around him.

He noticed then, too many minutes too late; time was behaving oddly in his head, extending itself too long as his despair lingered. "Master—!" he noticed the deck, finally. His right hand reached—it clasped his wrist, the heated gesture bringing his smaller frame to his, his head tipping back to look at him. "Stop it. Stop this." his voice, unusually stern, stripped of its usual playfulness felt foreign in this fleshy throat of his; he wanted to claw it out, this insidious feeling spreading through him. "Don't… I will behave. I will behave…" it softens at the last vowel, head lowering as it hears itself plea in a voice it could scarcely recognize as its own. He noticed his own hand, no longer entirely sure what he was begging for anymore. For himself? Out of some selfish desire of self-preservation? Or was it for him? Begging Heathcliff not to strain himself further, knowing of his already exhausted state? To entrap him as he did had almost cost him his life. There is no such thing as a free meal—everything had its price. The pendulum of dread swung towards himself, and back to him, uncertainty flickering in his vibrant eyes.

Master… please.

The claws tentatively unlatch, fingers recoiling as if scorching; the ghostly whisper of him whispers in his mind, gauzy-soft and submissive now, claws splintering the wood, as his other fingers flexed involuntarily, the mirror weighing down his arm. "I will submit." he bargained, a hand outstretched, open in surrender.

To whatever punishment you deem appropriate—I will submit, and endure it of my own will. You have my word... there is no need for your deck tonight.

Jasper's body tensed at the other's words, a low hiss escaping his lips as he jerked his head to the side, eyes hardening at the other. Baekyong. He should have fucking guessed. Where Heathcliff was, so was the Demon. A shadow that Jasper felt like he constantly had to keep an eye out for. Before his recent punishment -- if one would call it that -- Jasper didn't quite care what the Demon saw him doing. But now... Now, the fae was doing his best to obey.

It was much harder than what he originally imagined.

"Of course I am." Jasper snapped at the other, as if it was a wild delusion that he was being anything other than a good boy. But then Baekyong asked him to say please and that was the last fucking thing that Jasper felt like doing.

Instead, he reached behind him and tried to grip on anything he could find of the other. "I said get off! Personal fucking SPACE!" Fingers dug into flesh and Jasper assumed it was an arm but he couldn't be quite sure, and then he tugged and yanked as hard as he could.

#oftragxdy #script: baekyong.#ft: baekyong & jasper.#.........sir calm down #what do i even tag this as #gore tw #I GUESS ????#beakyong being unhinged pt 58

Tension. It could feel it coiling, tightening at the joints; the needle-like teeth of the bestial thing buried underneath this pound of flesh smiles gleefully, as if preparing to gorge on dessert. "Are you?" it's deeper, suddenly; dug out from beneath his ribs, a rumble that shook the very foundations of the place, unearthed of an ancient thing, buried beneath the tidal waves of time. He was still it—serpent, not boy, least he had forgotten. "I think you have been bad... you haven't been smiling enough.. should I carve out a permanent smile on you?" that voice in the black, obscured under his hair, was clipped and sibilant, a biting whisper of venom; seething, his forked tongue darted out, licking its lips as he reached and hooked the edges of his claws between each side of his mouth. Its eyes are a pendular blur, vibrating in its sockets; slits dilating, swallowing the yellow hungrily.

"Kidding!" It leaps off him, then, ripping itself through his fingers—tearing himself free of him, plucking his fingers off his mouth with a shrill hyena's laughter, echoing here and then, and everywhere. The light indents on his arms heal with a flicker of his eyes. He was waiting for him to turn, now. The laughter slowly quieted.

"Jasper... sweet Jasper. Please just don't misbehave, again, okay? Master is a very forgiving creature... I do so hate seeing him upset," he became dulcet then, cloying-sweet—his voice falling back into those lulling chimes that had people swaying closer to listen. "Jasper... all of his bad moods and hatred belong to me..." he dared brush his knuckle against the boy's hair, almost without touching. His blurry eyes had become dangerously still, as if honing in on a prey. "He has been adamant I must not kill you... so pretty please, behave, okay?" those treacherous eyes squeezed shut in an almost childish smile. "Or your mommy will have company soon—because I will rip out your boyfriend's spleen and make you eat it. Okay?"

"I..." Had she spoken about the other humans as if they were? "You know that's not what I meant. They aren't-- I mean, some treat us as if we are but all I'm saying is there are others you can sink your teeth into and coax into doing what you want. I'm not the only one." Nor, did she truly believe, that she was his favorite. Some of the Demons had told her that, in the past. And while it may have used to have a meaning to her -- hope, even -- it no longer did.

Favorite meant compliance. Attention. Good and bad. A disgustingly sweet word that had wrapped around her in the past where she begged to remain. A favorite. Because then, she wouldn't be left alone all the time.

Freyja dug her nails into the bare skin of her arms, forcing herself to focus on the brief pain she was causing herself rather than the emotional turmoil that threatened to cause the ground to shift and crack. "And if you wanted me elsewhere, before, you could have brought me elsewhere!" She found herself hissing at him, without even thinking of how he might react. Maybe she had put words in his mouth but what did it matter anymore? Actions spoke louder and his, the past, had showed that even as his "favorite", he hadn't done her many favors. He hadn't allowed her to leave.

Blood bubbled at the crescents in her skin. Freyja dug in deeper. Maybe he could have brought her back, if he wanted her there. But he'd only just found her. Right? Right? It didn't make sense. "That's... Demons are cruel. I know you've been kind in the past but--" She hadn't expected this. The calmness in his voice at times. The way he was speaking as if he only wanted to see her happy. The fact that he had even claimed, multiple times, that he'd missed her.

"Just for me." Freyja repeated in a low, monotoned voice as her head dipped and her eyes found the ground. It had finally stopped vibrating -- her magic receding back into her. As if it hadn't even been there in the first place. Her mind ran over possibility after possibility, deciphering his words until they were a jumbled mess in her head. Yarn that she'd finally managed to untangle after leaving the Dominion, only knotting back together in his presence.

"How do I know that you are being truthful?" Freyja asked as she slowly slid the mask she'd once worn for so long, back in place. "That you won't bring me back because I ask you not to."

#oftragxdy #script: baekyong.#ft: baekyong & freyja.#stockholm syndrome tw

"Freyja," the little demon clicked his tongue with passive disappointment, that bored loll of his head making him look like an expensive doll, all stiff, plastic limbs, meant to be dusted and sat prettily on top of a shelf somewhere. "If you find yourself so easily replaceable, I hardly see the point of your continues existence. Could somebody else not do this job? Could somebody else not do everything you do?" he hammers the word, made dulcet on his honed tongue, twisting, breaking them into a more agreeable shape. "What is the point of you, then?"

A light shrug, he brushes off the very idea of it as a mere causality; what was another body in the ever burning pyre of dominion? Perhaps it was crueler if it were true—if all she had to do to be rescued was ask, and she never even bothered to try. "Honestly, you can't possibly expect me to read your mind..." he granting her some leniency at the outburst, after all, so much is unraveling itself to him from a single conversation—the encounter had already proven fruitful, he could afford her this much, then, couldn't he? "You'd be surprised how much happier some people are with a purpose... mortals weren't made to float aimlessly, you know? They lose themselves." and she had already forgotten herself, hadn't she? The bars of her enclosure no longer held her physically, but they were still in there, weren't they?

How could someone like her ever truly be free? There isn't sufficient scar tissue in a lifetime and over to cover up those many scars.

"Mm," he hummed softly in agreement, the soft chime of church bells ringing in the distance, calling you home. Everything about him, from his delicate saunter towards her, to the untarnished white of his gown as it drags against the ground, told her she was safe. There was no corner, no hidden edge to him that was alarming. That was the danger of him, was it not? The serpent in the tree, holding the bird trapped in its vibrant gaze while its tail coiled around it. You are safe, it whispers, as it prepares to swallow you whole. You are safe. "Yes... a common affliction of my kind, I will admit... but there is no rule that way we must adhere to the status quo and settle for being savages..." he paused, his head tilting, bending towards the narrow bump of his shoulder in that subtly predatory way it did as if he was sizing her up.

"Do you still remember what you first called me when we met?" Angel. He smiled absently at the thought, vain serpent he was. "Grant your angel some grace, then... he has come from very far away to answer your prayers," Baekyong manages a smile, his yellow eyes swiveling towards the array of books. "You were wishing for something, weren't you? If it is knowledge you seek... I could enlighten you."

Well that was that. What other choice did Baekyong even have except to comply? The demon’s smooth surrender sufficiently placated Heathcliff, even though he knew the message and the deep lesson behind holding up a mirror for a night to reflect on vanity would be lost to him. Heathcliff was a faerie and the other was a demon. Their natures and ways were distinctly different. Where the demon did cruelty unto others just for cruelty’s sake or to sustain themselves, the fae trickery had to have a point to it all, a teaching irony to the petty vengeance they’d deliver. It had to be clever to be worth it. Too bad it was wasted on someone who could only pout but not learn and appreciate the lesson. A dark chuckle escaped Heathcliff at seeing Baekyong pout so much, an annoyingly self-satisfied and rumbling laugh void of any true mirth, only gratification that he’d once again gotten the upper hand. He nudged an elbow of the arm that held David up against the air and the bird jumped off, taking its considerable weight with it before it tired Heathcliff out too soon. Instead, it perched on the top of the mirror, adding to the heaviness Baekyong had to hold up, its talons, longer and more curved than Baekyong’s own, scraping against the hardwood of the frame, likely making the task of keeping the item off the floor more annoying and difficult.

Taking advantage of his free hands, Heathcliff glided away through the dark of the room and found a candle lantern to light up, using the same kindle and match he used to light up his pipe. A singular halo of candlelight illuminated the room, reflecting shadows on Heathcliff’s angular face as he picked it up. “Have a pleasant night, serpent. Mind not to make a ruckus.” With lantern lit and held up, Heathcliff raised his arm again, a cue for David to come back so they could go, which was exactly what David did after pointedly sharpening his beak against the frame of the mirror, very close to Baekyong’s hand which held it up. Then he flew back to his usual perch on Heathcliff’s arm, taking away his considerable weight with him and transferring it onto their mutual master instead.

#sonofbloodandthorns #script: baekyong.#ft: baekyong & heathcliff.#sprinkles a lil horror..... fun Fun

Darkness closed in, thick and eerie but such was the void of creation, the place of its birth, before it had a name, before it was a he, before it was made of insidious intent; the accused nest before there was an after, in which it first gained consciousness. Sometimes it is easy to forget what he is. He has made himself so small, he has given himself a name, has moved, and breathed, and indulged in mortal pleasures alike. He makes it easy to forget what he is—but here, in the dark, alone, it seemed clearer than ever the thing standing on the corner of the room couldn't have been human. He is so still, like a statue, unblinking, not drawing breath; his teeth glint like razors as he smiles as the bird, jaw unhinging in a languid smile that could rip the face open in two. It is the vile, foul thing of nightmares, the one knocking at the glass of your window, crooked and misshapen, fingers like twisted branches tap-tap-tapping on the glass during a howling storm, begging to be let in. It is tingling on your nape as you quicken your pace crossing an alleyway at night, bristling as something on your peripheral, something which was watching—always watching. It is the knot in your stomach as the closet door creaks open, just a sliver, letting darkness seep in, and you suddenly feel paralyzed with fear. The flames flickered, casting a warm glow that seemed to avoid it entirely—the shadow cast had no right to exist; etched to its heels and bled across floorboards at odds with the willowy figure so obediently holding the large mirror up. It stretched across the floorboards in a long black stain, flowing away from his feet and disappearing into the darkness beyond the candle's reach. It was gargantuan, refusing to reflect what the eyes could see—its proportions shifting in subtle, impossible movements, breaking into nauseating fragments, the crackling of the candle sounding more and more like the cracking of bones popping, shifting beneath the flesh. The limbs too long, spine bent at angles no body should, hair spread around it like a nest of black roots burrowing through the cracks in the wood, a large, winged thing cleaving open the marrow to extend across its shoulders.

Harmless, he stood, all the insidiousness of him contained. Nothing had changed. The boy held the mirror, its malignant eyes a violent yellow, like fireflies in the hollow. When the noises stopped, they bore into the bird with only ill-intent and from its open mouth hellfire spilled out, a swirl that chased it into the tunnel as it screamed out, flying in haste like all creatures did when in the presence of something evil; the flames died out before catching on a single feather, either by choice or lack of effort. Or perhaps it was that it did not wish for its punishment to be prolonged.

Nothing existed with certainty anymore—he stood there, alone, and the walls dissolved into blackness, corners vanished entirely, and in the trembling glow the shape held, a lonely white thing, slender to the point of frailty, pale hair spilled from his head in impossible lengths, dragging across the floor like a bridal veil, catching and writhing in the shifting shadows cast by the flame. He stood still, not breathing, not blinking, staring at himself with a faint air of amusement, unnaturally motionless, as though he had not moved in centuries and would not move again until he was willed to.

Part of the reason why Baekyong could not find any satisfaction in Heathcliff’s temporary lapse was likely because… it was never over with Heathcliff. Just when you’d find him at the precipice, instead of jumping over, he would find a way to slip past. Just when one would think that he was stomped to the ground, he resurrected, better and stronger than before. That had always been Heathcliff’s life cycle - soar high, fall, get up, soar higher. He was the villain killed at the end of the story but coming back in season two because no one checked on the body. The stubbornness to survive and persist was uncanny and pesky. For a face-off between a creature with a soul and a creature without one, the roles sure seemed reversed. The more tender and soft Baekyong got, the colder and harsher Heathcliff seemed to grow, rejecting any attempts to penetrate his hard shell with the offered affection. Heathcliff would adamantly argue that it was due to the undying, eternal hatred between them. But at the core of it all, it was fear and self-loathing. To admit that there was any bond or care between them was to dismantle Heathcliff’s entire worldview and core values. To turn vengeance to fondness was to admit an unimaginable paradox. If Heathcliff confessed to it, what was he supposed to do henceforth? It would uproot his life, turn it upside down. It would break his own conviction that he needed nothing and no one by him or to survive this cruel world. Last time he’d dared to do this, he’d ended up being the most miserable creature on the planet. So, cruel indifference it is, because letting the world forget he’s cold would be his undoing. “A command is a command. I fully expect you to obey.” He countered calmly, finally stepping away from Baekyong on his terms. He glanced absently at his bloodied hand, like it wasn’t even his, and plucked a tiny shard of the mirror glass that was preventing the healing out of his palm without so much as a wince of pain. The moment it was out, the superficial wound began to close up and next thing Heathcliff did was to come up with a silken handkerchief to wipe the blood with. He would be saving up the bloodied mirror shard. A good piece for cursing later on. Nothing is wasted.

That was when a haunting sound would interrupt them, almost like an approaching huff of a gust of wind except it was too rhythmic, moving too fast. The curtains over one of the wider tunnel entrances into the office billowed and a darker shadow entered the room, gliding through the air. Good thing the office was spacious or else things would be flying off the shelves and surfaces to the floor, knocked off by a large wingspan. Heathcliff raised an arm bent at the elbow and David lowered his massive talons onto his forearm. It almost sunk under the weight of the enormous bird. “You’ve returned? Bed time now?” The vulture croaked in response to its master’s soft inquiry, a terribly trilling sound, and directed its sideways gaze first at its master than at Baekyong, gold much paler than the demon’s around shrunk pupils. It was almost as if it were mocking the pale man, David at liberty to follow Heathcliff wherever he went unlike Baekyong.

#sonofbloodandthorns #script: baekyong.#ft: baekyong & heathcliff.#when you're jealous of a bird #'why dont u let Me perch on ur arm master :c'

A sharp exhale flared through his pert little nose, sylph-blonde hair tossed over the delicate curve of his shoulder as Baekyong turns, serpentine in its languid movements, away from his tormentor as though he had ceased to deserve contemplation of this form. Flawed as it was, it had taken him many moons to hone it into what it was today, this tangible thing he could yield and touch and occasionally torment. He would not understand—morals simply were, there was never a before for him, never a time where he had been secret prayers whispered in the dead night, longing, lust, desire, all slowly given shape. He was already on the verge of losing by being here, by looking, by standing beside this form an inch closer, a single moment longer than necessary—if it was affection, or hatred, or self-loathing the force which compelled him, he did not care; he would have him in any and every shape, broken and bruised or seething with venom. One day, he would call for him—not like he does now, hiding behind chores. He would call for him when he needed nothing, and he would come, of course he would come. He would hoard his time like the most precious jewel in his own cavern of wonders.

Fine, then, he thought; he'd bide his time, he had nothing but time. He'd wait for him as one does for a fruit to ripen, knowing it would be all the most delicious for the wait. He could be patient, when it mattered… it just so happen, very little outside of his own whims and pleasures seldom did. "…as you wish. Master." the surrender was smooth as ever, polite on the surface; but clipped tone made his displeasure known, his hands gripping the mirror curled into a clawed shape, holding it with strained tolerance not to break into shards.

The demon's mouth pursed disapprovingly, a sneer cutting through his composure—disdain thickening in his throat as the curtains rustle. There came that damned bird. He never liked birds of prey, but this one would be the first he would swallow whole if he ever had the chance. Why did he loved this fragile creature so? Was it more worthy than him for its blind, mindless loyalty? Did it heed his commands faster than he did? The serpent refuses to turn its head in acknowledgement, knowing it was being watched. The sooner he went to bed, the sooner he'd be back to release him from his punishment for the unforgivable crime of caring sparing him a shred of affection. Detestable creature, he was. Ungrateful. Stubborn. Hateful. Hateful. He should be so lucky to have a magnificent being catering to his every whim, wishing for his company. How many would not trade everything to have from Baekyong what he gives to him so willingly? Hateful creature. He would not want him were he any other way.

A soft sound of discomfort escapes Heathcliff even through closed mouth as he was suddenly clung to harder than he’d been drawn in and enticed. Baekyong’s hold on him had switched from gentle, caressing embrace to a desperate clutch of a frightened critter. A bout of panic settled in Heathcliff, fretting that the warming of his otherwise cold body would be noticed in such an intimate proximity, like it wasn't already. Blinking up towards the ceiling as he took away his gaze, throat swallowing an awkward lump of spit with an almost painful bob of his Adam’s apple, Heathcliff barely managed to squeeze out a hiss. “Keep your apologies, you mean none of them anyway.” For he was convinced that this creature’s capricious words could never be trusted, contradictory as they always were - sometimes cold, sometimes hot, from poisonous to sweet, believable to ridiculously untrue. How could anyone ever begin to believe the inconsistency of everything that left Baekyong’s alluring lips? Not Heathcliff, a fae who could not outright lie. The concept was lost on him and confusion was the only thing he could get from it.

#sonofbloodandthorns #script: baekyong.#ft: baekyong & heathcliff.#baekyong is dragging his claws on a chalkboard after this...

Baekyong should rejoice, should he not? His heart should swell with glee at the sight of the great, impetuous Heathcliff—his tormentor, his reckoning —under such turmoil. The way his head fell, weary and defeated, aimed low, his breath stuttered with a corporal weakness Baekyong deigned himself above, it should evoke some kind of contentment in him, he's certain. Does he not crave to see him in such a pitiful state? To feel the heat of his body and the taste of surrender on his tongue? Had he not vowed to break him in every way a man could be broken and drink of the chalice of his soul when his spirit was too battered to fight back? Why then, he wondered, was there no satisfaction to be found within him now? Fickle creature he was... could he never be satisfied? Why was it that his hands sought to bring solace when they could have inflicted more harm, why did this heart—this one, trapped inside his mortal coil—beat at such a pained rhythm at the sight? Sometimes, Baekyong could seldom understand it himself. He had never been close to another—always deeming himself above all others, an entity that could not be bound or tethered by such simple attachments. And yet... this forced proximity had awakened something in him.

His fingers recoil, one by one, slowly folding back into Baekyong's little hand, sheltered within its palm. "Master..." he cooed fondly, morosely, a creature's attempt at comfort who had no means of grasping such a thing—he calls for him almost absently, like a habit, like part of himself. The soul he had been lacking. This body held no spirit within, but it was by design; only a hollow thing could swallow all of his venom, could beg for him to fill him with all of his hatred, empty himself of all that self-loathing and pour it into him. Perhaps there was a small, selfish part of him that wanted to be needed, that wanted Heathcliff to need him, want him as much as he had come to want him. He did not believe him—he did not believe his tongue or the words it spilled, even if he knew better. He did not want to listen—it was not fair. He was pyre of agony for him, it was not fair he should suffer alone. He should burn too—he ought to. He could not...

"Uh—?!" The flames in his eyes ignited, wide and incredulous, fair lashes fluttering in naive disbelief. "Master–!" He urged, wanting to protest, but his hands had a will of their own—lifting that cracked mirror with a begrudging grunt. "Ngh—!" He loathed using his beautiful hands for anything other than maimimg and killing—he was not a brute, and this measily form, though it fed his vanity, did have its weakness when ill-prepared. "This is—this is ridiculous...! You're being preposterous... you cannot simply expect me to—" Surely he would not retire to his chambers and leave him here like a statue, holding this hefty thing, would he? He could. He would. The realization made his doughy cheeks red with barely concealed fury as he squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his teeth.

It was oh so very true… Baekyong was very good at making people forget what he truly was behind the misleading veil of beauty. It wasn’t just his willowy pale form shrunk petite and so deceptively helpless, frail wrists and waist, slender neck, face forever youthful and hair silken snow. It was his acting as well, the deviousness hidden behind meek behavior. He had a silver tongue of his own, beguiling and charming, knowing exactly when to agree and when to flatter to drop guards. What a sore miscalculation Heathcliff had made to approach so close of his own free will, like that would pass without a push back. Like he would not be made to regret it. He had been steering clear of the flame for so many decades only to falter now. Foolish. Risking a burn just because he had the upper hand for so long and had now found more ways to further tighten his grip on Baekyong’s leash. Icarus’ wings had never been more made of wax…

#sonofbloodandthorns #script: baekyong.#ft: baekyong & heathcliff.#violence tw #Immmmm #no words sb put me in an institution

Was that…?

There was a stir in him Baekyong could not help but immediately recognize for what it was—and history would tell him it was wishful thinking, his own glazed eyes casting projections; but it seeped into him, too—the mistakable scent rolling in waves, coiling into his nostrils like smoke, sweet, subtle, like blooming flowers in spring. Treacherously disarming in the way it brought Heathcliff closer in the sway of his body; his claws gripping him, arms wounding around the dark slope of his winged back like rope, reeling him into the safe confines of him. His hands were unhurried travelers, seeking, touching, too absent of thought. But there was not sense of urgency to perfume the tender path of palms on arms, the gentle kneading of fingers on shoulders, on neck. No, he was savoring, making a meal of him to outlive the harshness of winter.

“Yes, yes, you wouldn’t make it so simple. You’d prepare far crueler atrocities for me. I am a special case, after all.” Heathcliff waved an elegant hand lazily, the opium he’d smoked making him even more fluid than he already was. He needed the sleep tonight and this helped. It had been three nights and three days for him with barely half a dozen of hours of sleep in total. Partying, drinking, socializing, smoking, gambling, contending with demons, vampires and werewolves alike. The fact that he was still capable to utter a word with anyone was a miracle. The glorious profits the house had made lifted the weary spirits though. If it were not so, Heathcliff would’ve been hell of moody. Being as it were, he was just tired. “Like you better for what? To join one of your cult worshippers that you always brag about? I don’t partake in mass delusions. I will only pray for your pain, alone. So yes, I insist. I hope your front row seat to the show is not comfortable.” As Baekyong scampered off, Heathcliff lowered his feet off the footstool he rested them on - they were starting to fall asleep - and raised his arms above his head for a stretch, joints and vertebrae popping. He’d been carrying those accursed wings around for three days now. No wonder his shoulders and back were so powerful, for a fae. It was quite a weight to drag about. “You did not make a mess when it mattered. The re-opening went without a hitch.” He explained, stifling a yawn as he leaned towards the desk to rest his elbows on it, long fingers intertwined in front of the lower part of his face. “It’s also payment for the job I appointed you. You did hear me when I said you have a task to complete, right?” Moss green eyes followed Baekyong’s every movement in the mirror and squinted, as if battling against a bright halo pointed at him. He was so glittering, so radiant. The light of the sun hurt Heathcliff’s eyes and he detested it, would rather turn away to shield his sight from it but even as he did, he’d expose as much as he could of his profile to feel the sweet warmth crawling over his cold skin, warming, heating, stroking. Baekyong would see the judgmental squint of his eyes but not the faint twitch of the corners of his lips behind his hands. “Yes, I won well, and chose good to pair them with you.” He rose from his seat with an old man grunt and sauntered over, his wings which draped over the backrest and arms of the chair slipping off to trail after him with soft hush of fabric. With just a few wide steps he was behind Baekyong, having to bend low so his tall form would fit within the mirror’s frame.

And now I am inside you wherever you may go, so wear these bejeweled shackles well and thank Master sweetly for his generous gift. It was Heathcliff’s voice for sure but upon looking at his reflection in the mirror which leaned behind the demon, chin almost resting on his shoulder, his wicked lips only moved into a pale mocking smirk, not to form words. His baritone was indeed coming from within, dragging cashmere teeth over the inside of Baekyong’s skull, a shiver of a whisper caressing his bones, veins and nerves, felt with his entire body because it did not come from Heathcliff’s mouth but was implanted directly into Baekyong's mind instead, intimately intruding.

#sonofbloodandthorns #script: baekyong.#ft: baekyong & heathcliff.#shameless #put him in horny jail

A languid, perilous mimicry of a smile stretched across the sweet velvet of his mouth like a silent invitation for trouble. "Yes… you are special." something ominous permeated the room as the serpent's lulling words lingered on, treacherous, its meaning a double edged sword—he'd not deny his affections for his beautiful black moth who'd been the only one in a millennia to outsmart him, nor would he deny the weight of his wrath were his shackles ever to come undone; Baekyong was a grenade he held between his hands for centuries, knowing too well what would happen if he were to ever loosen his grip. But he already knew the consequences when he cast his curse, didn't he? The consequences had never eluded him, he was simply willing to pay the price. Perhaps there was something admirable about that. Mortals, in their own way, never ceased to amaze him. Especially this one. All of his flaws were so delectable—a shame he'd never allow him a taste, really.

"Tch… don't be silly," Baekyong promptly dismissed the idea, the molten gold of his eyes fixated on him, peering through the bump of his shoulder without rest—his sharp claw tapped there, rhythmic and amused. "Your mind is far too resilient to resort to blind worship, master. I hold you in higher esteem than that…" there is something utterly disarming about watching him stretch so lazily—the exhaustion of his bones, of his soul, exuding off him. Sore muscles, sore joints. He was overdo sleep—he knew how he loathed to drag his wings around, which was a shame, truly—Baekyong's eyes always fell the black veil of his wings with quiet admiration. Such a beautiful pair he had, night itself trapped inside their delicate veins, graceful, like a cloak draping down his back. He'd even mind his claws in the rare occasion he was allowed near them. It made him understand humans' desire to pin butterflies and hold them on display, really.

He would drag his hair between his middle and forefinger unhurriedly, admiring his gift shamelessly, preening, grooming himself. All of his dangerous nature seemed so subdued in these moments—sometimes, Baekyong made it too easy to forget what he really was. "I've heard you…" he whispered, his voice low and dangerous. Even so, he knew he had no need to pay him for his efforts—he had a ever willing slave in his hands until the day came where he did not. Was he preparing for such a day? Was this an attempt to gain his sympathy? His affection? It was unlike Heathcliff to appeal to his good nature in an effort to incentivize, but he'd dare say he was not… unaffected by the effort. Offerings had always been his favorite means of bargain. "Such a generous master, you are… my sleepy, generous master… you're so cute like this, I could eat you up," the demon lulled, the sweet chimes of his voice carrying over, imbibed in a syrupy sweetness that was nearly cloying.

That lecherous eyes find him as he comes too close, through the reflection first—the corner of his mouth twitching. It pleased him to see Heathcliff struggling against sleep—a reminder of his own mortality. His form so large still, even then, bent awkwardly to loom over him. He could hear him, then—his husky, disembodied voice which he'd recognize anywhere, fluttering inside the back of his skull like a black moth, his lips sealed. His own eyes widened, if only briefly, surprised—genuinely surprised. "Master—" he opened his mouth, then closed it slowly. A hint of red bit the apples of his cheeks as he turned ruddy, biting down his knuckle in a coy, mischievous way. "Ah… such a naughty master, giving me such a gift without warning…" but he looks the furthest thing from upset, a subtle hint of a smile touching the shadows of his mouth. He turned slowly, on his tiptoes so his clawed hands could find the slopes of his shoulders; mindful of the delicate material of his hands, he brushed his thumbs against it, summoning a gentleness into himself that did not belong. batting those lashes coquettishly at him with a purr trapped inside the well of his throat.

"Thank you, master..." whispered the viper, compliant for once, letting itself hanging off him like a lush coat, eyes glinting with what some may dare call adoration, all heavy lidded and sluggish, as though one might feel after a particularly large meal—the picture of lazy satisfaction.

I have been waiting so very patiently to have you inside me…

“Have you? To slit my throat the moment I loosen the noose around your neck? Ha! Having you is like having the rope to the guillotine above my head. It will only suffice when I dismantle you before you descend upon me.” Now that was truly rich, to call a plague of locusts he’d unleashed upon himself a good company for the rest of his life. No, the snake demon was his burden, his task, his unwillingly chained bête noire to drag down with him until he joined him in his misery. He will drag him through hot coal and freezing snow and broken shards of glass until they are both bruised and bloody and suffering all the same. This false docile behavior will not fool him. Heathcliff knew his hatred had kindled hatred so deep in return that if he stopped from keeping it in check even for a second, it would burn him to nothingness, like flame would a moth. He sat upright again, that permanently sour expression showing off his disgust with everything in existence back on his face where it belonged when Heathcliff was at his most unfiltered. “Wipe me of all that I am into a clean slate? Then go get some mud, make it into a shape of me and animate it. Have your fun with a doll void of soul and memory. See how that leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. That’s your fatal flaw, serpent.” As he spoke, every syllable dripping acid, he reached into the folds of his robe and its many inner pockets, coming up with something glistening like morning dew between his fingers, equally delicate but quite solid in shape. “You want what you cannot understand and offer to give what you do not possess.”

He did not elaborate further on his cryptic wisdom and instead brought his hand down again close to Baekyong’s profile. A light tingle of metal would tickle Baekyong’s ear, gold so pale it was almost white and diamonds like tears on dainty chains. The pair of jewelry would curl around demon’s pointed ears like caterpillars of precious shine, glistening like drops of rain against pale window glass. “I have won a set yesterday, against an amateur opponent who’s a lost cause to pure bluff. I have no use for it.” Heathcliff’s ears were not pierced. He’d never bothered with avoiding his rapid healing enough to maintain the tiny holes that could later on be decorated. All that tinkling around his sensitive ears sounded like a nuisance when he needed himself alert at all times. “Have these for yourself. There is a list of high rollers and markers ready to collect from. After you pay them a visit should they refuse to settle up, you can have the necklace and the bracelets that match to complete the set. Only a visit, Baekyong. They are not ripe for eating yet. I only need them reminded of what is owed.” He stressed, now dangling the two shiny objects in front of the other’s eyes so he could inspect them and take them. “Go. Try them on.” There was a wall mirror leaned against a buffet near them, frame intricately carved from sturdy lacquered oak, large enough for Baekyong to view himself from head to toes. It wasn’t put up yet, Heathcliff’s attendants simply not having gotten to the task due to the busy past few days.

#sonofbloodandthorns #script: baekyong.#ft: baekyong & heathcliff.#heathcliff is like 'icb my snake keeps breaking shit and causing mayhem idk why they're like this'#and then it shows a flashback of him rewarding their bad behavior w shinies smh

Sulking, the serpent retreats into itself like a scolded animal, nose crinkling with displeasure, lips swollen into a sullen shape. "Tch… and you think I'd sacrifice you for such base pleasures? Honestly, master…" prideful, mocking, the demon refused to budge—his forked tongue clicking sharply, that pert little nose hanging in the air indignantly as he huffed. It isn't until he heard Heathcliff saying so that Baekyong realized how utterly dissatisfying it would be—having him there, empty of himself. No bark, no bite, no hand to tug at his collar when he misbehaved. Just a hollow shell. Still, he thought, it would be his face—and what a lovely face it was. He could wrap himself around his mortal coil and ensnare him, hold him captive from himself. He could keep him alive, an eternal companion so his days would not be quite so boring as eternity stretched itself endlessly, no more of this nonsensical talk of aging away and rotting, leaving him behind to suffer the weight of his absence. No more of that cruel mouth of his to spew hateful words at him, to berate and humiliate. He would miss it, though, wouldn't he? All of him—even the insufferable bits he wished to erase. "You'd like me better without these pesky memories." he admitted with a begrudging huff, the callous intent behind the sentiment—selfish sentiment. Well, of course it was. He was all selfish, wasn't he? There was no such thing as a virtuous demon. Why did he care, anyways? He supposed his hatred was quite the aphrodisiac on its own. "Very well… if you insist on being miserable, what am I to do but to keep you company, mm?" he didn't deny it—couldn't, could he? How he he'd fantasized of slicing open that throat and quenching himself in his blood.

Head still tilted at his whim, the small, pale creature flinched at the sudden pricking of skin, sucking in a breath it did not need, taking a moment for it to register—that it was not punishment but reward, his delicate earlobe heavier now, adorned in something shiny, and beautiful, that complimented him so. Oh, how he loved these mortal trinkets. Heathcliff knew of his weakness for them—sometimes he would grab things without asking, but would always return it to its rightful place. If he ought to suffer along his master, he thought proper to at least do so elegantly. It felt different to be gifted though, something pleasant twisting low in his belly. Was he truly being rewarded? His fair lashes, soft as a doll's hairbrush, flutter up at the black witch moth, blinking rapidly, as if unwitting, a look of quiet, innocent confusion about him. "But..." he did not wish for him to take the gift back due to his tongue, but looked genuinely puzzled, all the insidiousness from earlier dissolved. "I was so ill-behaved just now..." Won't he punish him for it? His head lolled. What was the catch? They seemed like normal earrings. His clawed fingers brushed against it and listened to the joyful clinking, smiling, his expression warming to a light shade of red as he allowed himself to be pampered. "Mm... I suppose if you have no use for these, there is no harm…" pupils blown wide, as he watched him dangle the shiny bait like a predator being teased, following the swish swish of it with his large yellow eyes. He grabbed it, then, in haste, and clutched it to his chest like something precious—hoarder he was; the smile on his face widened an inch, and Baekyong sprouted ivory pile on the floor, sprinting towards the mirror like a nymph skipping through the woods.

Vain creature he was, the demon shamelessly admired himself, turning left, then right, the pale gold catching the light in a flattering way. He swept the long, silky curtain of his hair to the front of his shoulder, brushing the ends between his middle and forefinger, letting it drape down his chest, baring his nape and ear for scrutiny as he cleared his throat, demanding attention. "Master," he crooned, peering over the bump of his shoulders coquettishly. "What do you think?"

huiracha

FELIX for ELLE KOREA X LOUIS VUITTON

#portrait: baekyong.#whatever mannnnn

He heard that snarl bubbling up like a weak show of disobedience that it was and Heathcliff’s upper lip curled in distaste and disapproval of it. Dare complain, foul creature? His fingers released the hefty stack of paperwork, making the collection of it slap the desk’s surface with a resounding hit, like an opened-palm blow to the cheek. “Swallow back that temper of yours lest I make you choke on it.” He squeezed through gritted teeth, the pearly whites flat in comparison to Baekyong’s shark maw but no less dangerous in other ways. Then a breathy hiss rolled off his tongue as he felt the pointed sharpness of the other’s claws attempting to dig into the layers of long, flowing fabric the fae often dressed himself in. Not enough to bleed, not enough to truly hurt, for that was explicitly forbidden by the clause of their curse, yet still enough to be felt against skin and muscle beneath. “Clinging to me like a petulant child even as you pout. Not an ounce of shame in you.” With one hand now freed, he reached down to the exposed back of Baekyong’s neck, soft fingertips brushing like feathers through the short baby hairs messy over the neckline. Then further downwards, into the collar of his gown to find that small, uppermost part of the spine that protruded when one’s head was bowed. Blunt fingers slipped a slow, deliberate glide over the spot, touch tender and cold - that terrifying gentle stroke of winter which makes one shiver no matter how bundled up they were.

They both knew the answer to the little snake’s question and it only made Heathcliff chuckle, a dark, rumbling sound in the pit of his hollow chest, honey poured over jagged, barren rocks, gliding through the room like silk to enter ears sensitive to silver-tongued sounds. It was a mirthless tune, made with delight so fake it became the opposite of itself - a lullaby of woe. “Vexing to you, perhaps. For me, it’s all I have left. You wish to help me, demon? You have helped enough, by aiding those who committed me to this misery.” His hand retreated out of the other’s collar suddenly, as if burned, like he’d just noticed this moment of careless indulgence and hastily corrected it. A tender touch for the cruel participant of his demise? What a folly… He should much rather see his own hand cut off. He took another inhale of smoke from the pipe, the last one, his muscles and limbs already lax and free of their usual tension well enough and after this quick breath he tapped the head of the pipe against the desk’s edge, settling down the embers within. Click, click, click, then a final fourth one against a porcelain plate meant for it, placed downturned so lack of air would extinguish it in time. The smile that stretched Heathcliff’s lips this time was Cheshire, full of wicked rapture. “So you want to take that away from me too? Am I to be left with nothing? I can’t even keep my grief safe from you?” He pushed off the backrest of the chair he lounged in, upper body curling to loom over Baekyong and have his eyes peer into his directly from above. “Or would you have the tables turned, me as your pet this time around, my chain at the palm of your hand for eternity so I’d be forced to keep you company like no one else would?” Deep baritone dropped to a growling whisper, joining the cacophony of Baekyong’s sweet, melodic purr, spilling tempting ideas like candied apples ripe for the picking. “Do you think I’m an imbecile?" The last line was saccharine with a pinch of arsenic. Then Heathcliff’s gaze slid away to roam down the gentle slope of Baekyong’s cheek. “Lean your head aside. I wish to see something.” Not a command but a simple request, for now. What he aimed to verify was whether the other’s ears were pierced. He could not recall if they were - the demon wore so much jewelry that it had become difficult to track where on his body he wasn’t adorned.

#sonofbloodandthorns #script: baekyong.#ft: baekyong & heathcliff.

The petulant desire to protest swelled, then died in a breath, his mouth opening and closing without a sound, falling into a state of quiet sedation, all of his savagery is subdued beneath lulling rhythm of Heathcliff's hand—the quiet intimacy of it does not escape him but he is much too sluggish to move. He has dealt with a lot, hadn't he? Could he feel the struggle draining from his shoulders in how they slouched? How, begrudgingly, his half tame, half wild animal unlatched its fingers with all the strained tolerance of a feral thing now made tame? Had it not so terribly selfish to deny him these small indulgences when it cost him nothing? "Mm…" the fair veil of his lashes descended as the creature weakly attempted a noise of acknowledgement, its velvety purr rising to a loud crescendo as he was pampered, finding no strength to conjure those violent thoughts in such a state. The delicate shape of his bones protruded through his pale flesh, the demon made into a languid shape, poured at his feet like pale gold, the xylophone of his spine felt deceptively fragile his unhurried touch, sylph-blonde spilled over his lap messily. He bristled where his hands roamed, the icy chill of him seeping into his skin like an eternal winter made flesh, and grumbled periodically at the cold of him as he was relentlessly scolded, adhering to all affectations expected of him without any real hostility; if he were truly bothered, he would not be sprawled over his lap as serenely as he is.

"You have me," Baekyong reminded too confidently, not wasting a beat on feigned empathy. His yellow eyes crack open just a sliver, then, but he is unmoving, still as a dormant dragon who wished to remain in the clutches of slumber. "Shouldn't that suffice?" he was not being callous—the question was asked in earnest; if he wished to be loved he could love him, and if he had no vessel for his love he could pour that into him as well. If it was wrath he felt, he torture him endlessly, punish him, scold him—he was not a breakable thing. Friend, lover, enemy, whatever shape he required, he would take for him. What else could he want for? His eyes flicked, just briefly, inquisitive in the way only a being who knew too little of this world could be. He did not understand love, or grief, not really, but he imagined it must hurt in the way a splinter lodged into one's heart must hurt. Why suffer when pain could be lessened? Why writhe in agony when a touch of his hand could soothe the injury? He did not understand. Was he truly so wrong in asking?

The absence of his touch is felt instantly; the demon stirred, looking at him as though he had done something cruel. Expectant, waiting. But the hand did not return, and he was left to his sulking. The smile on his lips felt jagged, devoid of the warmth he knew smiles should hold. Baekyong's expression remained impassive, a loud exhale expanding in his lungs. "No." a treacherous thing made its way to his tongue, the slits of his eyes looking quietly amused. "You may keep nothing from me. I want all of you, every thought, and every memory. If I had my way, I would leave you hollow of everything." Except for him. His eyes felt hungry as they roamed through him, seeking to ravage in the most intimate of ways. "Ah, you're right, of course… my clever master, always right," he smiled impishly, smoothing out the terror of him, those tiny canines peeking through ruddy lips, unalarming and playful. "No sense in dwelling in these daydreams… I'm making myself hungry."

"Uh—?" those yellow eyes widened, just briefly, almost as if he was expecting a blow, a slap that never comes. He bent his cheek towards the bump of his shoulder as told, every muscle and thought melting away into quiet obedience. "…what is it?" the hair tumbles down his back, unraveling his pierced ear as Baekyong stared inquisitively.

"No." Freyja said, shaking her head again. She hadn't. There was no way she had, right? For months now, she'd been trying to live her own life away from the Dominion. Away from the Demons. Occasionally, she'd run into one -- Vorace, most recently -- but she always managed to claw her way back to her home. To the place she was trying to make home. To Malcolm. Not only that, but Azagi would have told her if she, somehow, called out to Demons. She would have. Freyja trusted the woman -- the Demon -- enough to believe that. "You're lying. This... it's just a coincidence."

A shiver ran down her body as his fingers brushed against her skin, his words cutting deep within her chest like nails that had once torn her flesh open. Except the way he cut into her wouldn't leave a physical scar. "Surely you can teach them." Freyja argued in a soft tone, trying her best not to upset him further. "Some are moldable." She hated using that word, considering it was exactly how she had been most of her life. "They'll learn." At this point, Freyja wasn't sure if she was trying to convince herself that she didn't want him or that he really didn't want her. She had pleasant memories of him. Times that weren't so harsh and frightening. Often, Freyja had looked forward to his visits. But then she discovered her magic and everything had changed.

As a human, Freyja couldn't fight back. She'd tried for years and she ended up in the same place she was born. Underneath Demons, criticized, used, yearned for in ways that she didn't even want. As a witch, she could be stronger and use it to her advantage. She had, in fact, in order to escape. But now it was out of control. She was out of control. The earth shook at the slightest spike of her emotions and she already knew -- could already feel -- that the magic in her veins were threatening to pulse out into the ground beneath their feet.

"No. No, I haven't. You just act like I have because I'm not where you want me to be." And if she walked right into his arms in that moment, wouldn't he take her back? Freyja didn't want to go back. But she also didn't want to make a scene in a bookstore. If they stayed there much longer, having this conversation, she'd ruin the place entirely.

Come here. It's okay... I'm not mad. I just missed you. The words itched something at the back of her mind, drawing out an emotion she hadn't felt in some time. Her eyes glazed over as they dipped down towards his hand. He appeared genuine but she feared he wasn't. "I can't go back." Freyja's voice cracked as her eyes lifted to his. "I'm not going back."

Her magic pulsated downward, echoing her emotions and began vibrating the ground. Fingers curled inward and her eyes searched for the exit. He was blocking it. But if she tried to flee -- not from him but just out of the building -- would he try to stop her?

He would, she decided. Which meant that her only way of stopping the ground from shaking even more was to calm down. Freyja quickly wrapped her arms around her body and began breathing deeply. Normally, she'd close her eyes as well, but she didn't trust Baekyong to not take advantage.

#oftragxdy #script: baekyong.#ft: baekyong & freyja.

"I have no reason to lie, don't be silly." the demon effortless dismissed the thought with a flicker of his wishbone wrist; the wet of his tongue pressing into the jaggedness of his canines as he head lolled, gradually bending his cheek towards the bump of his shoulder with all the quiet, passive interest of an observer—detached.

It brought him a sort of perverse joy to see her speak so ill of others, the underlying cruelty of her words as desperation swelled in her throat. He seizes the opportunity to attack, without missing a beat, chiding in the gentle, subtle ways he prefers. "They're not dogs, Freyja… don't be crude." the delicate, shiny jewels he had borrowed from his master chime as softly as church bells as his hand moves through the air, effortless, sylph-like in the fluidity of his movements, carefully tucking a white tuft behind the arch of his ear, flaunting all of that pompous, feline-like grace without a hint of humbleness. What a fickle thing, she was. He was almost disappointed she did not came crawling at the snap of a finger—though he supposed it did made things more interesting in the long run.

But who was he kidding? He loathed delayed gratification. He waited because he was made to wait, but seldom by choice.

The ground beneath their feet trembled, and he felt the stir in the air—at first it did not occur it could be coming from her. She was held no power back when they met—a time he recalled rather fondly. An angel, she'd called him; and for a moment the doe-eyed look in her eyes had nearly convinced him he might be one. Devils, angels, was there ever much of a difference between them aside from intent? He had been called so many things throughout the centuries—demon, fiend, angel, lord, savior, god. Perhaps the truth laid somewhere in between.

"Where I want you to be?" there was a flicker of surprise in, those large, dollish eyes widening into an aghast expression, batting those fair lashes at her unwittingly. "Do not put words in my tongue, little bird. A drop of power, and mortals go mad with hubris..." he sighed loudly, making his disappointment known. "If I wanted you there… you'd be there." dragged by her feet, with claw and teeth; who could hope to stop him least the one holding his leash tugged at it and demanded otherwise? "And yet…" he gestured then, palms open, eyes skimming through the walls and bookshelves as if to say: are you not free? Are we not here, conversing? Is this not proof enough of my kindness?

There was an urge to lunge in him he choked back down, clinging to shreds of self-restraint. Perhaps it was the pathetic crack in her voice that softened him, he was not too sure. "Now, now… do not twist your pretty face into something so sullen," he cooed. "If you do not wish to return, you needed only say so." he glanced down at where the invisible pressure of her magic pulsed through the air, waving his fingers to watch the light bounce off his claws. "Do you mistake me for some cruel thing? Was I not sweet to you?" he searched in her for an answer. "Honestly, Freyja... I've come all this way, just for you... and this is how you greet me?"

Unlike the demon in front of him who was a beauty frozen in a glass case of forever, Heathcliff had gone through so many changes. From a naive youth to a young man in love then a man broken turning into a vengeful ghost spreading devastation wherever he went. And now, a monster of his own making, cold and unyielding, existing in the ashes of his doomed past. He was change incarnate, with his intricate illusions, glamour and trickery, and the touch that decayed, capable of making a valley of blooms wither within seconds into barren wastelands. Death was an ever present companion for Heathcliff, closer to him than any had ever come, the one death took from him aside. Perhaps that was exactly what had made him truly formidable, if one cared to carefully notice the unforeseen danger that was Heathcliff. He was unafraid of death for it had already taken all that he held dear so he wielded it instead, better than any other weapon he’d ever held. Even now the gradual changes over centuries were obvious on him. The softness of youth was replaced by angular sharpness of his face, a maturity that cut like a razorblade, barely any hint of the cherub-like sweetness he had when he was just a seedling rushing its growth. This was Heathcliff’s prime though, a peak of the power that was still growing, honed into a scalpel’s edge by many a painful experience. If there ever was the worst time for Baekyong to dream of freedom, it was this time. “I know of a different story.” Heathcliff drawled as he watched the demon curl in on himself, like a snake preparing for a nap or a pounce, his emerald gaze an indifferent caress of coldness pushing back against the bright gleam of molten gold. The smoke Baekyong had inhaled was second hand, thinning out even as it reached its rightful owner. “Despair was once a mortal sin, like the other seven. And opposite of it stood the virtue of Joy, its preordained doom.” He broke off the staring match to take another lazy inhale off his pipe, the delay long and unrushed. “But Joy took pity on Despair and instead of smiting it, it sacrificed itself so Despair could reach the Heaven’s Gate and go back home, changed.” He craned his neck up and blew a perfect, thick ringlet of smoke towards the ceiling, watching it float up and up as he adjusted his jaw to send forth another one, prominent Adam’s apple moving in the pale exposed throat. “Despair refused to ascend and thus became Regret, roaming the earth alone, unaware that Joy survived, henceforth becoming Grief, remembering not who it once was.” Another ring of smoke was sent up, joining the first one and passing through its widened diameter. “As long as I grieve, Bakeyong, you will regret.” He tore his gaze away from the ceiling and steered the eerie green graveyard emptiness of his eyes back at the other man. “Even when I am gone, you will remember my name. There was once a fae named Heathcliff, who chained me like no one else did. A thousand years from now, three thousand, ten thousand. My name will haunt you with devotion you will never feel again. I will ruin you in all the ways you can imagine. I am your point of no return."

As he spoke, something in Heathcliff’s voice dropped and the room around them shimmered with the quiet warning of an earthquake. Shadows of everything under the artificial lighting elongated, stretching over floors and surfaces like claws from hell feeling for a rope that would pull them out of the pit. Like swords and knives they crawled to point their deadly tips in Baekyong’s direction. Yet just as the circle of light remaining around the demon got too narrow for comfort, the darkness retreated and the room breathed a sigh of relief, an immense pressure released as quickly as it had built up.

#sonofbloodandthorns #script: baekyong.#ft: baekyong & heathcliff.#“I will ruin you in all the ways you can imagine” ok GO OFF KING #reduce him to a purring kitten ig

It snarls with the barely contained rage of a feral animal; bare teeth, venomous tongue, hell trapped inside the perilous gleam of his moth-luring eyes. The end, the beginning, it all resides within the cavity of his chest—tear it open and you would find the serpent sheathed within this cocoon of flesh, writhing in agony under the weight of its forced captivity. No longer does it scales the clouds, nor soars abroad upon the high winds. No longer does it wear its diadem, eyes closed as worship was littered at its feet like a dozen roses upon sunrise, the terror of its beauty recognized. The threat bothered him; not because it is particularly terrifying; would he not have had its head long ago if that was all he desired? No—he has no fear he will kill him, the Black Witch Moth demands his misery to be shared, refusing to wither alone, forcing him to watch his flesh decayed before its very eyes. Was there no end to his cruelty? Had it not paid enough? Had it not been good? Had it not been docile? "Tch…" its forked tongue clicked, venom seething, bitter, unkind; the dark truth was met with a sharp turn of its head. He was not terrifying here, in his lap, in his clutches, milk-blonde head bent low against his tight, needle-like claws flexing, clutching to the soft meat of his thighs with the barely concealed desire to rip into it—the shadow of truth to his words, the invisible threat of being haunted, rather than the physical threat of being picked apart—that bothers him.

Smoke veils the ceilings, crisp tendrils of white curling against his master's cheeks and he burrows his face as not to witness the horror of him; he was a winters night, he could sleep inside the cold of him. There is no mercy to be found in the hollow of him. Neither sweet nor subtle, frustration expanded in his lungs, swelled in his throat, and Baekyong sighed in audible intervals, his breath foggy, labored, filled with perishing dreams, and with wrecks of indignation. "Is there no end to this grief?" Aren't you tired? He asked again, though he knew the answer already. Yes, he was tired. No, he would not relent. It was not in their nature to do so. Why does he insist on being so disagreeable? It offered him the world a thousand times over, but he sits here, he sits here and rots, and he forces him to endure it. "Your martyrdom must be vexing—" the snakes hisses, an ache in its gums begging to bite down hard against every rational thought. It cannot. "You are committed to this misery, to mindless suffering…" he raises not his eyes, nor his drooping head, on which sits a crown of white, hair unpooling down the length of his legs like silk ribbons. "If you do not ask, I cannot help… you know that." the words land, sulking, accusing, muffled against the fabric of his clothes.

A thousand years from now, three thousand, ten thousand. It trashes against the tides of change, the unwelcome stir within rises all the same; it does not wish to change, it was not meant for change—the shape of him was made to hold still, even time would not dare reach for him—he stood beyond the gates of its domain, untouched. But the fae threatened him so brazenly. He could not comprehend the weight of his threat—the incorrigible perversion of self his cruel mouth demanded. It was a violent of the most intimate kind, to feel absence where once there was nothing. His cheeks grew ruddy, warm, and a low, resigned vibration rumbled in his throat, like a growl of a beast trapped in a well, like the soft purr of a kitten bundled in your lap. "I could devour your pain, erase your grief… but again and again, you have denied me," the frustration had softened by then, collapsed into another sigh as those yellow eyes lifted to him, childlike in their curiosity, peering inquisitively through the gauzy veil of its lashes. "Why won't you let me help?"

A mixture of emotions flooded her chest. Fear. Relief. Excitement. Confusion. More fear. What would he do, now that he knew she was still alive? The urge to crumble to her knees and beg for forgiveness punched her so hard in the chest that she almost lost all of the air in her lungs.

Little dove. The nickname caused a whimper to escape her lips as she stayed there, frozen, while his hand reached out and pushed a darkened strand of hair from her face. Baekyong had been one of the kinder Demons -- if she were to call any of them kind. His requests, for the most part, had been gentler. He'd even brought her sweets on occasion and spoke to her in a soft voice. Things that she yearned for time and time again. Things she still ached for.

"I... was?" She was practically breathless as she stared up at him. She didn't remember calling out for him -- or any demon, for that matter. She shook her head back and forth, trying to focus. She had to focus. They were smart. He was smart. His words were often like a song to her, desperate to be heard. "You wouldn't have let me go if I'd have told you. You know that. I--" Her magic buzzed underneath her skin as she stared at him. He seemed... sad. But could Demons really feel such emotion?

"Forgive... forgive me?" She scoffed as she jerked her face away from his hand. "I haven't done anything wrong. I just wanted a life. To experience more." Freyja insisted in a hissed tone. "You can find another favorite." She found herself saying, even though part of her wanted to do anything she could to remain his favorite. "There are plenty for you to choose from."

#oftragxdy #script: baekyong.#ft: baekyong & freyja.#.......evil #i need sb to spray him w holy water like Now

The stir in her does not go unnoticed; a conflicting array of emotions coloring her lovely face; what a mess had been made of his little bird. She was all frightened, all rattled now, her beautiful, bright feathers looking all worn and dull. She had always demanded a gentler hand—what use was brutality when she could stay in her open cage of her own free will? Now that was a far more satisfying thought. She had found her way back to him, hadn't she? She must miss it, part of her does—it could tell.

How dared she leave him so callously? He had not allowed her to leave, she could not go—in spite, the serpent had half a mind to unhinge its maw and swallow her whole, trap the girl inside its belly like a small insect, where it could not leave, not ever again—but no, he dismissed the thought promptly. That was his temper talking, wasn't it? "Of course you were," the demon doesn't miss a beat; doesn't allow for her to dwell too long in her own thoughts, only enough for her mind to make room for his words, for the seed of self-doubt to take root. "Why else would I have come to you?" How else? How else? He hammers in the words, his unflinching gaze paralyzing.

"I suppose we'll never know... you never bothered to ask, after all." he is stern then, delivering the blow with the same hand that would offer her treats, the same thumb that wiped the slickness of ripe fruit off her lips pressing to her chin, dragging languidly against the shape of her jaw. So breakable. He could rip it in half without even trying... "No," he said decidedly. "I miss you. I want you. None of the others know how to touch me like you do," he delivers it like praise, like a warm balm, meant to soothe over any lingering unpleasantness.

"Haven't you?" he echoed all the words he knew were rippling through the walls of her brain already. Haven't you done wrong? Haven't you? Haven't you? Letting them take form, spill through the echo chamber he had made of his mouth; every doubt, every cruel thought she ever had about herself could so easily take shape in this graceful, poised form before her. "Freyja," he lets her recoil, wishbone fingers curling inwards, if only to offer the illusion of choice while sounding so awfully condescending, like a teacher patiently explaining a difficult equation to a most disagreeable child. "People who've done nothing wrong don't usually have to hide... do they?" Ah. His plush lips rounded around the soft vowel, as if he'd unearthed something.

Silence punctuated his disapproval, but then... something softened in his demeanor.

"Come here," he beckoned then, the frost in his eyes thawing to make room for something warmer; his clawed finger beckoning with the come hither motion of a confident owner, trusting its cherished pet to obey. "It's okay... I'm not mad. I just missed you."

where: burnt pages -- the haven

closed starter for @imocgi

Out of everything that Freyja had to deal with while growing up in the Dominion -- the strict rules in the Compound, the way the Demons treated her -- one of the hardest things had been the fact that she'd never learned how to read. Not that she'd had access to many books in her life. The State of Calamity seemed to be in short supply. But lately, she was doing her best to work on herself and being able to read was one of her goals.

Fingers brushed the old spines of the books in the back of the bookstore. They were thicker, these books. Freyja had no idea what they were about, though. There was a sign above the book cases but she didn't know what it said. I could ask someone. She pressed her lips together into a thin line, knowing it was out of her comfort zone. But how else was she going to find the easier books? And maybe they had ones that could teach her how to read.

She turned, stepping around one of the shelves, fully intending to find someone that worked there. Although, instead, she had planted herself in front of someone that caused her magic to prickle against her skin. Even though Freyja didn't know how to read -- and her memory had been completely screwed with over the years -- she remembered faces. Especially ones from the Dominion.

"You... you don't work here." It was a statement, rather than a question. Because why would a Demon work at a bookstore in neutral territory, of all places?