barbie, eat your heart out.

"Now why would I do such a thing like that?" She asked in a soft, soothing voice as her fingers tangled in his light locks. "I want nothing more than to give you what you most desire." She whispered as her lips brushed against the crook of his neck. She was supposed to fight this Demon -- to win. She wanted to win. But that didn't mean she couldn't have a little bit of fun with him first. The Vampire, before him, hadn't given her any.

And she was so fucking bored.

A moan escaped her lips as his claw pressed against her body and dragged down over her skin. She didn't even have to look to know that there was mostly likely some blood bubbling to the surface. At his demand, she didn't even hesitate. She was trained not to. Not only that, but she didn't even want to disobey. Raven saw no reason to. Yet, anyway.

Location: Slaughter Ring Closed: for @imocgi

The moment Heathcliff had seen the announcements of the first round of contestants, a deep frown was set onto his face. At a first glance he was slightly amused to see a number of familiar faces - the she-wolf assassin named after the season of fallen leaves, Najelon going against the beautiful woman from the beach Heathcliff had accidentally met one moonlit night. The diviner who enabled him to peek into the underworld for a whispering glimpse of his long lost love versus the little human whom he’d shown Myre and received clumsy gifts for it. A Davenport he’d personally met on a dark street in Dominion and Najelon’s pet human, gorgeously seductive and too precious not to be an anonymous attempt to rile the said demon up. And then, finally, his own recently gone missing household animal, found on the list of participants. Heathcliff’s blood began to slowly bubble and boil. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought that one of the reasons for Baekyong was not occupying a seat next to him might be because he’d entered the contest. What irked him was that out of all the possibilities he could bet on, this one just had to turn out to be true. He’d stiffly excused himself from the small company he’d kept in the VIP seating area, leaving Sylvia and Oleander alone and to their devices there for the moment in favor of making his way down to the pits where contestants awaited their call into the ring. Expert level glamour and illusioned invisibility had been used to avoid detection and access spaces spectators would not be allowed in, just in case. Upon finding the demon he made sure he was fully visible and in his usual disguise meant for the public - wings tucked in way before they’ve even ventured out of their home, ears rounded and shrunk, eyes darkened to obsidian and hair cropped short and slicked back for convenience. He’d kept his freakish height though, preferring to tower over crowds in this case. “I see how it is. You’ve decided to do more than spectate today. How exciting.” He knew he could manage to sneak up even on demons and catch them by surprise, as silent as a graveyard when he made shadows hide him, approaching the other from behind, tone full of sarcasm and spite. “Got your snake eyes on the prize don’t you? I wonder what’s going to be your heart’s desire if you end up winning the last round.”  

"Ah..." it let out a sharp exhalation, his head turning back towards the mirror, the brief tension on his shoulders draining as they drop once more, swathed in a comfortable, cotton robe. "You know I hate when you do that," swat, swat, he flickered that pale hand in the air over the bump of his shoulder without landing a hit, making his displeasure known, as he always did, as if shooing away a noisy fly or disoriented moth, fluttering about without aim. The demon closed its all-seeing eyes, inhaling a long, deep breath as if to summon composure back into its bones---air flooded those lungs and slowly, gradually, left them deflated as it exited in a melancholic sigh. "It seems as though you are always so intent on assuming the worst of me..." the serpent hummed in a sing-songy fashion; he could go on and on about how it had not, in fact, been his choice to entertain this crew of unfamiliar faces—little seemed to be, these days; but just what would be the point of it? To circle back over to same bitter suspicion in his hateful mouth? A snake, he was, but he had no intention of condemning himself to the fate of an ouroboros—reassurance from his mouth, he had come to learn, was the same as venom if poured into Heathcliff's ears.

Brow raised as the other's finger came to hook under his chin, but he allowed it for now. It wasn't much, because if the rules were too much, then he likely wouldn't have any clientele at all. "Demon, I presume? The rules are simple, and the same for all: don't create a mess that I have to get involved in or clean up, and no snacking on other guests without consent, because I would very much like my clientele to keep coming back and not be, you know, dead."

Malcolm reached out, taking the other's wrist in his hand and pulling it away, "Do you have clothes on under there? I'm a little concerned about how you plan to wash my sheets if you have nothing else to put on. I'm also somewhat concerned about whether you even know how to do laundry. Something tells me you have people that do that for you, or you never wear an outfit twice."

"Who are you visiting?"

He withdrew its finger, slowly, carefully tucking the claw back into his palm as he allowed the other to take a hold of his wrist without fuss, that dollish head of his lolling, mirroring the other in gesticulation. "If it pleases you," neither 'yes' nor 'no' ever seem to leave that lush mouth of his often, the words would curl around the delicate shape of his mouth, each syllable measured and weighted. "You may call me whatever you wish." the arm fell, slowly back to his side, and the creature leaned, wide-eyed and amused, pushing himself to his toes to reach him from an uncomfortable proximity. "What of you?" it taunted, pupils shrinking, then expanding. "You are no guest... may I snack on you?" dimples tugged at the edges of his mouth, his eyes crinkling as it took every opportunity to taunt and prod.

"No," there—a simple answer. Did that satisfy? "Ah... so perceptive," it flattered. "I suppose the good samaritan thing to do would be to give me your clothes, no?" Minx that he was, Baekyong gazed into his eyes, unyielding, giving the waistline of the boy's pants a sharp tug—before releasing with a mischievous giggle. It unwrapped, then, wearing only its naked skin, then as, unceremoniously tossing the sheets over his head. It was true—he did do laundry, hadn't the slightest clue to, or any intention of learning. "Shall you teach me, then?"

Raven walked into the ring with confidence and frustration. Her fist match hadn't gone as she wanted. Yes, she'd won, but only because a Vampire had walked out of the ring. It was beyond something she'd ever expected. Was he actually afraid of humans? "I should have just cut open my arm to begin with." Raven grumbled to herself as she squished her toes in the sand. She'd chosen to enter without shoes, wanting the best opportunity for balance.

She let out a breath as she turned towards her opponent, who had finally stepped into the ring. Her eyes widened when she realized what they were. Demon. Saliva built in her mouth just at the thought of going against him. "Look at you." Eyes raked over the other's body -- white hair and pale skin, exuding almost everything Raven found attractive in a person. Really, she was attracted to most.

Was she watching, he wondered? Was he?

Were all these hungry eyes on him rooting for his victory, or prophesying his downfall? Did it matter so long as they kept looking at him?

The demon in shape of a boy was barefoot, and yet his feet were pristine; untouched by dirt and grime, pale as a lamb. A sharp exhale hung on his forked tongue, sylph-blonde hair tossed over his shoulder with the cold air, mouth pursed disapprovingly—he looks at them, and sees them clearly, for all of their hunger, all of their sin. Who else would love all of them, even the ugly, deepest parts? Was he not a most gentle death? Did they not feel loved while being digested? He extended a hand, holds out his wishbone arms with the strained tolerance of a half-tamed animal, those perilous yellow eyes search in the crowd, skimming briefly for familiar faces, leeching off those repugnant emotions, delicious lust, insufferable greed, flaring, impregnating the air. The corners of its mouth titled, little canines peeking beneath the softness of his lips. "Little human..." he greeted too sweetly, coaxing her closer, the lulling voice of a serpent holding you in trance as it wraps around you. She needed little coaxing this one, so eager for relief, for pain, for sex, for that void to be filled; if she were to worship him at his altar, he would not deny her. He was not a cruel god, was he?

Jack lets out a disgusted scoff at the words whispered in his ear - perhaps any other species he would give back just as good, but he certainly wasn't about to go into a flirting battle with a demon, not after what they had done. It was difficult with demons, to get information. He had tried, but they don't run in packs, and they don't have any kind of hierarchy; it's every demon for themselves and that makes gaining information more difficult than it should be. They were still no closer to finding out which one was responsible for taking Ophelia's soul.

He grunts at the pain, biting back any cries of pain as to not give the other satisfaction as nails digging through flesh and muscles, tendons and cartilage until it reaches bone. The instinct to yank his hand away is one he has to fight, or he may find himself degloved, or worse.

Free hand digs into the demons neck, thumb places on adam's apple as he pushes with all his might. He needs to get out of this; he'll be of little use if he's healing from serious injury for weeks, or months. He can't come out of this severely injured or dead unless he wins - it wouldn't be worth the shit he got from Axel.

The hand on his neck connects to his anger, to his loss, to his sorrow, and soon he feels the heat, fire under his command. It doesn't burn him, not when he's the one creating it. Flames become visible under his hand, melting clothes to skin. Eyes widen in shock, because he hadn't meant to do it. He jolts back, yelping as he shields his eyes from the sheer brightness; he had thought maybe it was candlelight that he'd created, but clearly it was something more as something akin to a palm-sized sun sat in his hand.

Pain was a curious thing. Over nine hundred years, and just now was he beginning to learn what it felt like—he used to sneer at how mortals made such a ceremony of it, dressing it in meaning, called it proof of devotion or bravery, when to him it had always just been red, red and violent and pointless; as though it could never amount to anything more than a body doing what bodies did best: failing. Baekyong had worn its own flesh for centuries on, enough to know there was nothing poetic about pain, not when it came to his own. The bruises flowered beneath his skin, ugly and dark, and blood warmed his mouth, and none of it had surged much of an effect, but he had not expected the human's hand at his throat to become the thing it did.

At first, there was only heat, low and summering beneath the flesh. Then, without any warning, there was light—and the light was pure and cleansing, and he could not stand it; it scorched, the blinding clarity of it, born from within, bleeding through the palm of Jack's hand, bright enough to bleach the world, he was sure, were the fascinating boy not as stunned as the demon in his grip. Baekyong's smile faltered—just for a moment, losing its humor, its honed edge; it softened, along with the curve of his mouth and doe-like shape of his eyes, the too gentle flutter of his gauzy lashes, like moths scattering in a flurry towards the light, making room for surprise to settle into his marrow. Surprise. Mortals, and all of their complications and intricacies, had always been his blind spot; wasn't that what made them so fascinating? What other creature could hope to cling onto life as fiercely as one touched by death from their very first breath?

The vibrant hues of his eyes glittered in apprehension and lurid curiosity; the flame burned, eating through cloth and kissing his pale paper-skin, charring the delicate fabric already covered in grime and blood, crawling beneath the pale flesh at his throat, searching for something tender to turn ash. He hissed. The sound deep in his chest, old and wet and furious like steam escaping from pipes. His claws tightened around Jack's ruined hand on instinct; biting deeper, scraping against bone with a sound like cutlery dragged across a plate as it shrieked, squeezing its eyes shut, seeing a white flash beneath his eyelids, his hair caught the violent light, and for an instant he looked almost sanctified.

The gold of his eyes narrowed into thin slits. "Why, you little—!" Baekyong's forked tongue flicked as the demon huffed, blood slipping from the corner of his mouth and down his chin as he grasped at his throat, breathing too harshly to claim indifference as the world bled back into view; blurry and hazy at the edges still; but he could sense his body heat even through the disorienting fog. "Well... aren't you just full of surprises?" it was his window—he knew the time to play was over as his hands clasping around the boy's throat, flipping them on the ground immediately, his own pulse fluttering frantically as it competed with his to be heard as a low, deep rumbling echoed in his chest like an apex predator contemplating eating its victims. "I think I've had just about enough of you, now," he pressed into his windpipe just enough to cut off air—and counted his breaths until they slowed down, vestiges of confusion and fascination in the flames of his eyes; this one was special—no sense in killing them now, was there? "Rest now..." taking advantage of his sluggishness and shock, Baekyong's hand cupped his hand almost too gently before banging it hard against the floor to knock him unconscious, then slowly removed his hand from his neck with all the strained tolerance of a feral beast.

He made his way into the ring with a fake confidence, knowing that he could be going up against someone much more powerful than himself. It was a risk, but to him, it was one worth taking for what his prize would get them.

His opponent entered the ring, and suddenly, Jack didn't need to fake his confidence. Anger took over upon finding out that he was against a demon. They were the reason he was here in the first place - if it wasn't for them taking Ophelia's soul, he wouldn't have a reason to be fighting. The Refuge needed her back, soul included, and so did Jack.

This was his sport, but not his game—he was a lover, not a fighter, wasn't that what he used to say with blood on his lips? Ripping things to pieces was only fun until it wasn't. He preferred live bait, kicking and wriggling; wasn't that much more fun for everyone, anyway? The human lunged at him all fist and fury, body muscular and tough and young, heavy, as it collided like a pile of bricks atop of him, his skull landing on the hard hard floor with a sickening crack, white hair unspooling beneath their tangled shape like silk ribbons, the splash of red from his split mouth landing there like a spill of paint on a blank canvas. He could feel the force behind the fists hitting him, raw, unfiltered rage—and the fresh blooms of dark red and purple sprouting on the delicate skin he wore like a field of flowers.

Again, and again, and again—he smiled, the honed corner of his mouth pointing itself outward like a dagger, aimed at him—a hand draping itself over his wounded fist to still it.

He had nearly laughed that dark, despicable laugh of his when he’d been called infuriating by what was likely the most infuriating being in all of existence. At least he was in all that mattered and existed around Heathcliff. There had never been a person who’d infuriated him as much as Baekyong did. Even Heathcliff’s family had seen some end and some conclusion to his hate. Some through dying by his hand and some through being ruined and never reached out to again. But Baekyong? He remained in the line of fire for over two hundred years. Two hundred years of them being two opposing currents in one ocean, battling against each other in a whirlpool, swallowing everything in their wake and drowning all the ships with the maelstrom they were caught in. When one tugged, the other pulled. When one shouted, the other screamed. When one insulted the other cursed. Yet in the middle of it, the storm they were caught in brought up something else from the deep… 

The world had tilted, but they were not falling. "I hate you... when you do that," he had to add the last bit, so his mouth may commit to the truth; he could tell no lies, a burden of Heathcliff's he had forced him into carrying too. It used to be obligation, and now it feels as though there is more than anything, a clawing, needy desire to preserve him—preserve him like he did all of those precious things inside his old home, guard it ferociously, let no other touch it. He flexed those fingers, coiled in his clothes so pathetically tight, and huffed—the involuntary admission his own body filling him with embarrassment in a way all his spilled confessions had not.

"You would desecrate my own lair with these antics? One of these days you will really fall, and I will..." he wanted to say he would not reach, would not come; but those all would be lies. He huffed once more, looking at the tilted world. It once that he stood atop this very mountain, reigning as high as the moon, untouched by these measly affairs, untouched by the world below, uncaring and cold. Life was easier then. They would sing for him, play for him, charmed him with the most beautiful songs to beg him to come down—and still he seldom would. And what does this insufferable creature do? Steal him away, takes him, like a treasure to be taken, humiliated and defeated. Has he no respect for anything other than his own—I can listen to you beg forever. He opened his unruly mouth to protest, and found no sound in his throat instead, the filmy veil pressed between their mouths stealing a gasp from him—the hotness of his breath and dampness of his tongue seeping through, making him all dizzy—silencing him at once, own mouth gaping without sound; those bright, yellow eyes widened, blinking, as if unwitting. Surprised, in that way only Heathcliff can surprise him, he can feel a rush of blood flow to his cheeks unbidden. His claws clutched at the fae's chest with the barely contained urge to rip out his heart—"You..." Infuriating. He huffed a third time, turning his red face away into his sternum if it ought to suffice to hide his shame. It did not. His whole body felt feverishly warm in a way he did not allow it, not even in Dominion. What had he done to him?

The blankets and sheets that were not only accommodating someone else now, but weren't even clean anymore. Freyja let out a sigh, shifted the blanket around her body until she could pull her phone out of her pocket and texted Malcolm.

Freyja: I'm pretty exhausted now that I'm done with my shift so... rain check on tonight? Malcolm: Yeah, no problem. Make sure you get something to eat, get your energy back, yeah? Freyja: Yeah, I will. I think I have some leftovers.

She didn't, in fact, have leftovers.

Malcolm: okay, if you change your mind let me know. You know I’m not far away. Freyja: I will. Oh. Also. Is there a way I can get extra sheets, blankets, and pillows sent up to my room? Who do I call? Malcolm: oh I can bring them if you want. Vamp speed and all that ;) Freyja: Oh. No. No, that's fine. You don't have to do that. Malcolm: okay… I’ll have reception send it up to you. Freyja: Thank you, Mal. Malcolm: You’re welcome. You need me, you know where I am.

It was clear, after she looked up from her phone, that Baekyong had no intentions of moving from her bed. Freyja had learned how to read him, after all the years she'd spent in the Dominion with him visiting her. He was comfortable. There was no way he was choosing to sleep anywhere else.

Which posed a problem for her. Freyja had no other bed in her hotel suite.

Her cheeks flared with heat and she tightened the blanket around her. "I did not invite you here. You are not a guest. And I was... I thought I was alone." She hissed the last word out at him before moving towards her dresser, grabbing some new clothes for her to change into. Thankfully, she had another bathroom she could use that wasn't attached to her room.

"The bathroom is through that door." She pointed towards it without even looking over her shoulder at him. "And the towels are in the cabinet below the sink. Have at it." As much as she didn't want him there, Baekyong was not leaving. She'd have to make do. "Hot and tingling?" Freyja's eyebrows furrowed as she finally turned towards him to notice him holding his hand up above himself. "What are you--"

Then, she saw it. An opened wound on his hand. "What happened?" Her defenses were down in an instant as she moved towards him, climbing up onto the bed, releasing the blanket around her to grasp ahold of his wrist and fingers. She was gentle as she pulled his hand closer so that she could inspect the wound. "Why isn't it closing, Baekyong?"

He pulled all the covers and sheets around himself like a wild thing trying to make a nest of them—he pulled everything around him into himself, like a force, like gravity, because he did quite know how not to. The entity turned its head, in that predatory way it did, then, but it stared at her through soft, glass-like eyes. "Would you have me leave, then?" he would not. He did not have to listen—and so he would not. He had tried to climb back atop somewhere high, but it could not match the comforts of a warm bed, or the softness of pillows. He felt the taste of his old, aged loneliness in the back of his throat, and so he came to find somewhere to put it at ease—Baekyong was a needful creature, and he resented loneliness, almost as much as he resented these things bubbling up in him, wanting to make home of this shell as though they were not beneath him.

"Prepare it for me... warm. With flowers. I must scrub this... thing off me." so demanding, he was; demanding tongue, demanding posture; was it not a privilege to tend to him? How could anyone think otherwise?

Those cornflower eyes widen—surprise giving him pause. He expected her to heed his orders, but not such... intimacy. The wishbone shape of his wrist is suddenly grasped, his held held like a tender thing; he is blinking at her, frowning, as if unwitting—but allows the temporary gentleness as it comes without retrieving his hand. "It will..." he responded, to proud to consider otherwise. "It's just..." he thought of it, eyes swiveling sideways as he summoned the right words to appease, to shield himself. "A temporary... inconvenience..." Was it? Temporary? Would he hold to his wound for longer than necessary just to punish him? Like a bad dog, Baekyong refused to take in any lessons that ought to come from it. He flexed his fingers in her clutches, and like a cat, it watched its own hand like a foreign thing, claws unsheathed, blood trickling down his wrist like a splash of violence against his pale-paper skin. "Do you have a meat-clever? Perhaps I should try cutting the whole thing off..." he thinks not of band-aids, or salve, or soothing; he does not like looking at it, nor the feelings that come attached to it, and immediately his mind resorts to violence. He flexed his fingers again, resenting the sight of that gash there—wondering why it was taking so long for him to tend to himself, to him, in turn. Was this the pain he felt? The pain she felt? He does not like the corridors in which his thoughts turn to explore in this weakened state.

The amusement came to a halt the moment physical contact was made, though. Najelon felt him getting closer, pale smoke swirling in the air like a bee with a fragrant target, he simply didn’t expect the imp to ignore his past and repeated warnings once more.

“Do you want me to break your spine into a hundred pieces, you little miscreant?” he asked with a lazy smirk on his lips, very consciously ignoring Baekyong’s request and endless complaints.

Not a single muscle in his body moved, pretending to be unbothered by the unwanted closeness. Najelon was always at odds when it came to the devil on his back; sometimes he enjoyed the shamelessness, the utter chaos his very presence stirred, and other times he wanted nothing more than to gag and tie him up until he grew tired of his own whining.

“What did you do to piss off your master tonight?” Obviously, there had to be a reason, otherwise he’d be glued to Heathcliff as usual. The croupier asked him to place his bet, and Najelon chose odds. The roulette started spinning once more.

It does not rattle easily, then—even if its prideful nature does not allow for his displeasure to go unknown. "Don't tease, Naj," the calm voice whispers in his ear, calm which he summons out of thin air, immediately conflicting with the needy swell in his throat moments ago; an airy softness to it now, as if he were more breeze than flesh. He smiles, showing a little teeth. "You know I'm not allowed to snack inside." Then, that mouth settles again, pliant, soft. It was true, for the most part—its hands were metaphorically tied; he could not tear into his every problem, could not make a pile of gore of those who displeased him so. No messes inside the Casino, and all. It was a small comfort when it had rained blood days prior, and he could find some solace in that. Otherwise, Heathcliff's mouth was a grave where 'yes' went to die—no, no, no. That is all he knew what to say—Do not leave this here, do not move that, do not eat high-paying customers or business partners or family... truly, that old man could be so very unreasonable.

Even.

Which could mean nothing... but wasn't he winning before the other, perilous little thing, had made its presence known?

"...me?" the soft cadence it uses is dulcet, the lamb pelt fitting too comfortably around its shoulders by now. "Now... why is it that everyone keeps asking me that..." How frustrating. It dislodged from him, circling the demon's seat like a pale vulture, making his way to his front—he wished to be seen. Regarded. He presses his flank to the table, entirely obscuring his view. What did you do wrong? How could you possibly have brought this upon yourself? How unfair everyone seemed to think so. Had he not made for the most loyal pet for over two centuries now? Did he not made room within himself to accommodate all of his temper tantrums and mindless cruelty? Did he not outstretch his beautiful hand for him to bite again and again? One should think that deserved a little praise. "Even a god could hope to assuage that old man's mercurial temperament..." Absolving himself of blame, as he does—Baekyong extended his claws over Naj's shoulder, watching the light glint at the cutting tip, hovering there without touching. "Besides... maybe I've missed you," he lied shamelessly, because, well—he could. "You know what mortals say about all work and no play..." he sighed without finishing, his head lolling

"There's a place for guests to do laundry in the basement, coin operated." Malcolm responded politely, stopping in his tracks just short of the other.

The vampire could smell the sulfur in the air as it practically oozed from the man in front of him, whom he now all but knew he was a demon, but there was something else mixed in there that he couldn't quite place - a familiar scent.

"Are you a guest here? I don't recall seeing you before, and I'm usually notified by my team when there's a first time guest, just so I can ensure you have everything you need and that you know the rules that come with staying here. I would hate to think that your arrival slipped their minds."

"Aha..." it seemed to find something amusing, though it made no effort to elaborate what. "I'm..." it—he, slipping back into the role of boyishness, seemed to dwell for a moment, then smoothed his expression into something more affable, disarming. "...visiting an old friend." that should do, shouldn't it? So much humanity in this one, still... the smile that slithers across the delicate shape of his mouth is a practiced imitation of what it had learned through dutiful observation, worn to appease, mellow and unalarming. It holds it there for a second too long.

"Aren't you helpful?" the serpent cooed in a dulcet chime, and without reservations reached with those jagged claws, pinched his chin between thumb and forefinger, as though looking at a most adorable little puppy. "Would you like to recite these rules to me?"

“I am as I am. Take it or leave it.” He said as he turned, wishing he could also say that he cared not either way. Those words did not even reach his mouth, let alone left it spoken. Because they were untrue. He had to have one or the other. Acceptance or hatred, one had to keep binding them if not both. Heathcliff had promised, time and again, that he would never let Baekyong rest, never let him have a moment of peace, never stop being haunted by the shadow of Heathcliff’s name, the name of a fae who bound him. He was going to fulfill this promise because every faerie word was true, their promises stone not dulled by the crashing waves of time. And even when heaven and earth upturned and death came to claim him, the name will remain, engraved into Baekyong’s very core by those long, elegant fingers, clawless but still sharp, digging in painfully with blunt nails until they reached a place where what they left in their wake could never be dug out, never erased, never healed. 

"I am not a merciful creature, master..." it averted its gaze, just its eyes, the slitted pupils swiveling to the right, plagued by hesitation before they return to him, the look on its face bosetted, so completely he could not even bring himself to mind the soreness of neck at being held at such angle, the discomfort in his spine as it bent towards him, the naked, unberable vulnerability of being picked apart by his hands. "I am greedy and unkind, and you—you will not leave me," it clung to him with all the neediness of an unruly child now—fingers coiling into him, clutching. It bit his finger as though it wished to hold him there by force, hard, but never enough to bruise. His teeth were small like this, and that glazed look in its eyes disarming. "I do not permit it... You have promised me an eternity of misery. You cannot abandon me." how selfishly he demanded, pretending it was anything other than a plea, a desperate, wounded sound in his throat. "I will not spend eternity missing you as I have these past days—I cannot bear it... I will not allow death to reap you from me." He is not allowed to die—how many times must he say so to get it through that thick skull of his? He would not push him—he would hold him so tight, he could not move. He would jump off that cliff himself, if he did, and make a cocoon of his body so his body survive the winds, the fall. He was not allowed to die—he would not leave him to his loneliness in this cold place. He would not.

The gentle sway of his body had Baekyong leaning into him, pushing himself to his tiptoes until their noses were touching, until their breaths were shared. "You are not prey..." It brought a knuckle to his cheek, and dragged it wistfully, mapping the delicate shape of his jaw. "Why is it that you insist on comparing yourself to such a lowly things when..." he searched in him—those yellow eyes stripped of predation—searching for the knowledge that he already knew. How could he not? "You are better. You are..." there are mortal no words for what he is—what he has become in the light of his eyes. Precious. Cherished. Needed. "There is no other as maddening... or as lovely as you," that heart of his skipped a beat. He bristled, throat arching into the hand made a makeshift collar around it, with a willingness that surprised even him. "I think of you empty, and am filled with... this... unpleasant sentiment I cannot understand..." his absence ravaged him in a way nothing else could. How could he draw breath without him near? It's as if his body had forgotten how to be without him, dependant on him to function properly.