Griffin gets his shit together and realizes he still has an uninvited house guest to deal with.

CW: Harsh language, mild death, references to violence.

Word Count: 5864

It took three false starts before Griffin found his way into the weak moonlight.  Dirt filled his lungs and choked him, arms too weak to get him to the surface of the shallow earth around him. Limbs, newly whole, would not obey him and his mind was foggy. He could hear the living things in the earth around him.  The warm, loose soil was agony against skin newly born to sensation.  He wept pitifully, choking and dying again until finally he could make all of the parts of him work together to climb out of the dirt.  

He hadn't even been buried, really. Just tossed into the back yard. Face down and as the grass around him had died while the magic of his unnatural existence syphoned off their energy, he had sunk into the arms of the waiting earth. The air was hot, even though it was late evening, and so he knew that it had been a fair while that he'd been dead. It had been late spring when he'd come to...

Where was he again?

The witch struggled to roll over onto his back, the pin pricks of soft grass painful on nerves that had not worked in some time. He was weak and shaking, not able to do much more than that. Naked and alone in the quiet of the small green space bathed in silvery moonlight that filtered between the buildings on either side and tainted by the orange haze of street lamps beyond.  

Boston. That's right. 

Working.

Griffin tried to fill his lungs a little more fully and was racked by coughing. He wanted to curl in around himself, but he didn't have the strength to. He'd been dead a long while this time, that much he could tell.  Everything ached.  Some places were acute piercing echoes of sharp teeth rending limb from limb and when he closed his eyes the haze of orange streetlight against his lids became the hellfire glow of ember eyes.

Oh, that's right. The stalker demon. He'd killed him.  

He hated this part. When he died like this. The weak and shaking agony. How he had to piece himself and his mind back together. There would be gaps in what he could remember and certainly the Sinclaires with whom to account since it probably seemed like he’d ghosted. Hell, someone else might be living here already.  He'd have to deal with them. 

An hour passed, and then another. Griffin managed to get to his hands and knees, but every time he tried to stand his knees gave out and he had to lay gasping and panting on the grass for a while before he summoned the strength to try again. It was nearly dawn by the time he stumbled to his feet and made it to the sliding glass door that led from the kitchen to the small back yard of the brownstone. He drew a shaky finger across the glass and then slid it open. Leaning heavily on the door frame, still unsteady as a newborn colt, he sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose. 

Sulfur.  

Was he still here?  

Griffin left a trail of dirt and other debris along his path and though he was desperate to rest, ironic, and shower, his fawn legs simply wouldn't hold him.  He managed to make it to the couch and collapsed there, fingers curling around the throw blanket piled against the arm, luxuriating in the softness of it as sleep dragged him under again.

The sound of the slider opening roused Balakai from a light sleep. He grunted a little and shoved the heavy weight of the other person in the bed off him, snagging a shirt from the pile on the floor. "Did I say you could spend the night?  Get out."

He threw the man's shoes at him, ignoring the confused, sleepy protest. He didn't wait to see him start to stand and dress. The demon padded down the stairs, eyes bright in the darkness and steps near silent, wearing one of Griffin's dress shirts, the too long sleeves left to flap around his hands and the hem dropping low enough on his thighs to provide some kind of decency. His hair was platinum blonde, though the fuzz growing on the shaved sides of his head showed dark.

He stopped near the bottom, breathing in slow huffs. The scent of earth and grass and the air coming in the still open door. He spotted Griffin's auburn hair and a smile flashed across his face, bright with delight. When his temporary companion came stumping down the stairs, he whirled on the man with a hiss. "Shh."  The demon hurried him out, locking the front door behind him.  

He got a beer out of the fridge, still moving quiet as a shadow, popping the top off. He settled into the chair across from the couch where Griffin had collapsed and curled up like a cat, watching him.

The witch slept the day and into the night, breath slow and even. If he dreamed there was no sign of it.  Griffin hardly moved and made no sound. The deathly pallor of him, however, slowly warmed into something closer to his normal warm cream color. The stars came out and the moon began to wheel overhead, silvery light spilling into the room and falling gently to caress the witch's still form. He was filthy with the grime of his time having been tossed into the backyard of the brownstone. As it neared midnight, his strange eyes slid open, unfocused and with little of the white visible.

Balakai didn't move. He stayed curled in the chair. The empty bottle went on the coffee table when he finished it and otherwise he just stayed curled in the chair, watching Griff through just barely slit open eyes. When finally he stirred, the corners of the demon's mouth twitched into a slow smile.

The expression on Griffin’s face was unreadable, as if he were trying to figure out what he was looking at, and wasn't quite able to put the image together. Then his brows knit, maybe in recognition and he shifted just a little, taking in a deeper breath that he released very slowly, testing the capacity and function of his lungs. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but his voice only came out as a rasp of not quite real sound and he huffed in annoyance. 

Balakai chuckled when he tried to speak and only rasped, uncurling from the chair and picking his way to the kitchen. He returned with two beers, set one in front of Griffin and took the second back to his chair.  He waited, in no particular hurry. It was perhaps a greater display of patience than most people would expect of him, but he was, functionally, immortal.  What care did he have for time?  

Griffin moved in subtle little stretches, barely testing one muscle or another and settling back into his skin. It took a while, maybe half an hour, and then he tried to speak again.

"Boyfriend shirt?  Really?" His voice was ragged and hoarse, lacking the witch’s normal strength and resonance. 

"Sounds like you've been chain smoking." The demon chuckled, and looked down at the shirt he was wearing. He gave a little shrug and snuggled down into it. "I didn't feel like walking around starkers. Your shirts are conveniently sized."

Griffin gave another slow sigh and carefully levered himself up to sitting. It took a lot longer than it should have. Though he always rose from the dead, his body was only just healed enough to sustain his life. The quality of it, at present, wasn't great. Or even good. It was, if he were honest, not actually better than being dead. He felt nothing in death. No memory, no feeling. Just quiet drifting in the soft nothing that cradled him and demanded of him nothing. Not to be or to think or to feel. It was the only time that he ever really felt like he rested, like he was given any kind of respite from the endless of a life that no human was naturally meant to have. He did not mind being dead.

He reached over and tried to take hold of the beer bottle, but his fingers didn't want to grip right just yet. He let his hand fall back into his lap and just glared at it for a long moment, opening and closing his hands until he was ready to give it another try. This time he managed to lift the bottle and brought it to his lips and downed almost half the bottle before he took a break. He couldn't really feel a lot worse than he already did, so he didn't much care if his delicate, newly alive digestive system rebelled.

"How long was I dead?" He finally asked, settling a little and feeling a bit more present. He wasn't ready to unpack that he was actually wildly grateful that the demon was there. Unless Velorum decided to show up, or his body ended up somewhere strange, he almost always woke alone. It was- it was never not somewhat frightening. Even though Balakai had murdered him, he'd known he would and wasn't actually bothered by that. It was more strange, and more compelling, that he had stayed.

The intensity of Balakai's gaze didn't leave the witch. Watching him steadily, quietly, sipping his beer. Curious. "Six weeks, give or take."

He ran a hand through his hair, sweat matted from sex and sleep still. 

"You smell good."  His head canted a little to the side. He gave himself a little shake all over and stood up, movements changing from the slow, patient grace to something more energetic and restless. In a little, too-fast to be human, movement, he hopped lightly across the coffee table and sat on the edge of it, directly across from the witch. He leaned close, looking into his face intently. While he'd seen him often, this process, the way he came back, was not something he'd ever seen up close. That he'd had a hand in it also made him more invested.

He ran his fingers over the newest scars on Griff's chest, where his own teeth had ripped flesh and held him when he broke his neck.

Griffin shivered under the light touch of the demon. He didn't shy away from his appraisal, not completely unused to someone else being curious about him. He didn't exactly advertise his condition. The secret of it usually gave him an advantage over people in a fight, a variable that he knew that they didn't. Balakai knew. Had known. He found that he was just a little curious how many times the demon had observed him die and rise again.  

Nose wrinkling in something akin to disgust, he brought the bottle to his lips again despite the way his stomach rolled. It was definitely not ready to function yet but that didn't stop him from finishing the beer and setting the bottle back down on the table. 

"Good?  Yeah, maybe if you like carrion."  Which, he surmised, Balakai just might. "Price of murdering me; help me up to the shower."

He was weak on his feet, but more steady than the night before. He just wanted to be clean, longed to feel warm and almost human again. 

"And change the sheets on my bed. I don't want to smell like your fuck toys." There was no bite to his words.  He just didn't have enough energy for that yet.

Balakai chuffed softly under his breath and shook his head, but he stood and slid an arm around Griffin's waist.  He helped steady the witch as he rose and guided him up the stairs.  He took him straight to the bathroom, but didn't rush him, taking it one step at a time until they got there. Then he put a hand on Griffin's shoulder and pushed him down to the floor of the shower, where he could lean back against the wall, holding onto him to make sure he didn't fall.

He stripped out of Grif's shirt and reached in to turn the water on, then dropped a washcloth in his lap. 

"You smell like blood and dirt and magic. Not a lot smells better than that.  Unless you add sex to it."  The words were candid, just before he slipped out of the room and left Grif to himself. He stripped the sheets and pitched them into the laundry room, changed them out for fresh, then padded back into the bathroom.  

The demon didn't ask before he stepped into the shower with Griffin, turning his face up to the spray of water to let it loosen the sweat from his hair and skin. He gave himself a little shake and crouched down in front of the witch, holding out a hand for the rag. "Gimme that."

Griffin handed the wash cloth he'd been ineffectively trying to use to scrub his soiled skin back to the demon. The trip up the stairs had been complete hell, all of his joints and muscles screaming with disuse. Bones felt as if the lightest step would shatter them. And through it all, Griffin had not made a single sound. Not a whimper or cry. Then, as now, his face was set in a kind of cold determination.

He didn't fuss, just sat under the warm water and practiced breathing.  Though he hurt, he felt very little, a kind of pleasant numbness stealing any fucks he might have to give.

Taking the cloth, Balakai settled onto the tile floor and took one of Griff's hands. He started to clean the dirt off, even paying attention to the dirt under the nail with the meticulousness of someone who often had to clean up after messes of which they wanted to leave no trace. Nor did he make any sort of attempt to obfuscate the way he inspected each finger, the fine play of muscle and bone of the wrist, the way the scars shifted when his skin moved.

He finished both arms up to the shoulder, then tugged on one of his ankles.  He pulled Griffin's foot into his lap and started the same treatment there.  "Don't threaten me again." 

The witch let his head fall back to rest on the tile behind him, eyes slit just a hint as he watched the demon in his surprisingly delicate care of him. He was completely disinclined to stop him or impede the grooming in any way, not simply because it would have taken him till the water ran cold to get that far on his own. It was nice. To have someone else care for him for just a moment and even if it wouldn't last he was more than happy to accept the care for the moments it was offered. It gave him a chance to study the demon with more attention than he had to date. The way he moved and the unexpected gentleness with which he took care of him.  

He sat on Balakai's words for a few minutes, moving as needed to allow him access, occasionally making little noises of relief or pain when he moved wrong. It would be another day at least before he didn't feel the strange physical dislocation from himself as new nerves understood their function. He also turned the boundary over in his mind. Balakai might not realize that's what it was, but Griffin did. He didn't have a lot of them in his life, but the ones that existed were non-negotiable for him.

"Okay." And after a few breaths, "Are you working for or with Julian?  Because I'm here to kill him. Capture isn't going to happen with him. I already made that mistake." It was easy to agree, to see the beginnings of the shape of whatever this was.  

"Don't break me into more pieces than that without my permission. Coming back is a bitch and I died three more times in the backyard. If I'm going to choke, I'd like it not to be on dirt." His voice finally held a hint of amusement at the ridiculousness of his own situation.

The demon didn't even blink at Grif's easy acceptance, but made a little snort of disgust. "I didn't even know who the fucking guy was. Read the file while you were a corpse. He's boring." Balakai gave a little one-shouldered shrug and wiggled his fingertips on the back of Griffin's knee for just a second to tickle him, lips twitching in a little flash of toothy smile. Then he nudged his knees apart and leaned forward to scrub down the witch's chest, stomach, and groin. Nor was he shy about fondling him, though not with any particular intention.

"I like that you fight me, I don't care that you hurt me. So long as you don't threaten me again I'll make sure you die neater. Otherwise I'll eat you and let you choke on dog shit. Come on, turn around." Balakai shifted to his knees and helped Griffin to turn in the relatively tight confines of the shower so that the demon could scrub his back, and then work the dirt out of his hair.

It hurt as much as it felt soothing, but much of life was like that for Griffin.  Somewhere, something had gone differently in his brain. Maybe he'd died once too often, or the darkness of the destruction he had wrought when unmade by grief and an absolute inability to process the horror through which he'd been put, had simply altered him in a way that made him process differently. He'd never honestly taken the time to give a shit and think about it. Facts being facts, sometimes, most of the time, it was hard for him to tell the difference between pleasure and pain. Neither lasted. Both were sensations of being alive. They came from the hands of lovers and enemies alike. Opposite sides of the very same coin and the sameness of them made them near indistinguishable to him.  

Balakai's presence however, was distinct from either of those things. He didn't annoy Griffin like most people did after five minutes. Even other immortals. Their pining and angst was literally endless, and he always ended up wanting to snap their necks or give them something about which to cry. Attempts at morality and purpose and whatever other bullshit made them feel like their days had any kind of meaning made him laugh. He knew what his days were worth. Same as everyone else's. Nothing. Nothing at all. The world kept spinning and horrible shit happened. So did some good.  And none of it changed anything. 

"Why did you stay?" He figured he knew the answer, but he left room to be wrong. And he didn't expect anything from the hell hound. Expectation led to disappointment and he made a habit of not allowing those. He took him as he was. He was, in truth, entitled to nothing more.

Balakai slid close behind him as he finished scrubbing Griffin's back. He put an arm around his waist and lifted him a little, so he could run the rag down over his ass and the backs of his thighs, bracing the witch against his chest as he did. He pressed his face against the skin of his shoulder, lips parting so he could lick the water from his skin in a slow, languid lick. He mouthed the pale skin, lips moving and teeth scraping blunt, not trying for anything. Just... feeling. Tasting. He made a low rumble and settled back, pulling Griff with him so the witch was in his lap, tossing the rag into the corner of the shower.

"Rent was paid up.  House is nicer than the couches I've been staying on.  Knew you'd be back eventually."  He reached up, feeling up the wall to find the shower knob and cranking off the water.  "Sinclaires came by once because no one was answering your phone."

Balakai was all hard muscle, always seemed more solid than the slight of him would have implied.  Deceptive.  That's what he was.  Not wholly uncomfortable, though, and even if Griffin had been capable of stopping him from manhandling him, he wasn't sure that he would have.  He wasn't opposed.  Instead, he gave a slow exhale of breath and just melted into him, no fight and no tension in his scarred body.  

They weren't pretty, his scars.  No artful things, any.  They were layered one on top of another from centuries of abuse.  He couldn't even remember most of them.  The newer ones, or most unusual, or traumatic, but he'd died so many times it was impossible now.  His mind was only human, after all.  

Griffin was quiet, thoughts slow to resolve into actual speech.  The low rumble of the demon felt nice against his back, as did the warmth of him.  

"What did you tell them?  Do I still have a job?"  It occurred to him that it was strangely nice to have someone to catch him up on what he'd missed.  It was always a pain in the ass when he'd been dead a while and had to track down his stuff, what had happened to his life.  He usually had his version of a bug-out bag stashed about any place he spent any time, just in case, but he'd had to walk disoriented and naked as the day he was born through more than one train station.  It took a while to catch up on time, and it was tiring.  Balakai being there was... it made it a little easier.

Balakai laughed, sharp and delighted and he nudged open the door of the shower.  The towels weren't within reach, so he pushed Griffin off of him- not particularly roughly- and stood, giving himself a little shake.  He snagged towels off the rack and dropped one on Griffin, scrubbing himself vigorously off with the other.  "Not a damn thing- you think I'm stupid enough to open the door?  Oh no, witch boy.  I've enjoyed Relic's company in the past but I don't know that he enjoyed mine."  

He dropped his towel on the floor along with a few other odd bits of laundry that had clearly been kicking around for a while.  When Griffin looked mostly dry- or at least, too tired to dry himself anymore, Balakai reached down and offered him a hand up.  "Besides, they're your employer.  You can make your own excuses.  So, what do you want first?  Bed or phone?"

Griffin almost missed the questions, his attention still stuck on the previous point that Balakai had so blithely just dropped into conversation as if it were nothing. "You slept with Relic Night?"  

He knew that his incredulity should have been tempered because demons, but the husband of the Head of House Sinclaire wasn't just anyone.  He was a Templar Captain who had served as a Vatican Hunter for the better part of millennia beside the See's pet assassins, the House of Night.  There were names, people, whom most of the supernatural world came to know.  Relic’s was one of them.  Crusader, monster, avenger, playboy, Relic was a lot of things.  Griffin had known him a fair while, but only in vague passing.  He tended to avoid anyone who might have enough of a moral compass to want him to remain in the ground.  

He reached up and gave the demon the first hint of a real smile he'd managed since he'd woken.  "Bed.  You can tell me all about it.  I've always wondered if he was worth the trouble.  His husband is pretty unflappable and that makes me want to mess with them even more.  I'm just not that suicidal." 

"I have fucked Relic Night."  Balakai corrected, clasping Grif's forearm and hauling him to his feet.  He pulled the witch in against him so the taller man could use him for balance, and they began the slow shuffle to the bedroom.  He'd even managed to grab an extra blanket he'd seen in the linen closet, so though the smell of sex lingered, it was faint.  He got the witch into bed, then crawled in himself, curled up almost entirely on the pillows.  Inconvenient to his bed partner, maybe, but it wasn't like Griff was in any condition to object in any way but words.

"There was this fallen angel in London.  I got invited to his parties here and there, was occasionally hooking up with another fallen at the time.  He had Relic on a damn collar.  Little bell and everything." He chuckled, settling into the softness of the pillows, rolling onto his side and sliding a hand down to touch himself as he recalled.  "Relic was hot as hell, and pretty much down for anything.  He's gotten stuck up with marriage and shit.  He's no fun anymore.  Burned down his whole ass night club when he broke up with Andriel."

Griffin carefully settled himself against Balakai's upper chest, using him as a pillow instead and not at all fussed. He was tired and comfortable and clean. He wasn't sure that he was terribly glad to be alive, but he'd long ago stopped spending many of his mental resources lamenting the fact. Just wasn't worth it.  Instead, he chuckled and reached up to absently run slow fingers through the demon's hair. If he was at all bothered by him handling himself, he didn't show it in the least. Instead, he raised an impressed eyebrow and shifted just a little so he could peer up at him with his one blue eye.  

"Did you now? I'm having a hard time picturing that, since I've only ever seen the man when working, but I would give someone else's cock for that image. Nights are above my pay grade. Angels too." He had to grin at the tiny flicker of desire that sparked at the picture of Balakai railing the lovely Relic Night Sinclaire on his knees with a delightful little bell ringing through his cries.

"Just- no gag reflex. And lust daemon, you know? He's basically made to be the village bicycle." Balakai tilted his head into the fingers in his hair and resettled, draping one arm around Griffin's shoulders while he continued to tug and stroke himself. His hand on Griffin's chest traced the map of layered scars. He especially lingered over the ones from his own teeth, eyes mostly closed  though he wasn't particularly tired.  

"He wasn't exactly chummy with the rest of the Nights at that point- I never saw any of them around until after the break up." He hummed softly under his breath, then shook his head."Maybe two months later he showed up in London at the Cup. Andriel had put out word on him and the Fallen I was banging spotted him when he showed up with a young, fresh-faced Noah Sinclaire. And I'm impulsive, so starting a fight didn't sound like a bad idea.  Anyway, the angel died and I'm banned from the Cup."

"Oh I don't imagine his sister had much like for a Fallen." Dark August Night, Relic’s sister, had as much a reputation as her brother. She was Velorum’s right hand and Griffin had met her plenty of times. She liked him not at all. The feeling was entirely mutual, as he had no use what-so-ever for sanctimonious, self-righteous, morality judges who looked down on him. 

"Bummer about the Cup, though. Byron can be a good time when he's of a mind." Griffin was careful with the faery, and Princes most of all. Too much danger in the kind of magic so many of them wielded, and too much probability that he would fuck up and do himself mischief that he did not intend.  

He was fond of purposeful self destruction.  

"Sinclaires, now them I know. I dealt with Claire, and then her son, Justin. And all that came before. Noah's new. I would love that threesome because holy fuck are they pretty. Like fire and ice. Made the offer but they shot me down."  He shivered and pressed a little more into the demon, not unhappy at the trace of fingers on his skin. He wasn't self conscious about his scars. Maybe a long time ago, but that had long since faded. He brushed a whisper of fingers along Balakai's hip, not offering really, just present.

"Mmm, no. I fuck off as soon as she shows up though. I like my head where it is, thanks. Both of them." Balakai chuckled and lazed on the pillows. For all he acted a loner, he liked the undemanding contact that was Griffin. Normally people expected things. But he felt rather like he knew exactly what to expect from the witch and that was... well, nothing. Not really anything at all. He couldn't ask for much more.

"I don't tangle with the fucking Sinclaires or the Nights. I try not to tangle with any groups. I may be a dumb bitch, but I know better than to be one lone demon pissing off entire organizations. Mostly." The last was tagged on because sometimes he just couldn't help himself.

Griffin chuckled, though the sound of it was choked off by a cough because his lungs still didn't much want to work. It was inelegant, but he didn't care. He'd been dead a while, after all. There wasn't a lot he could expect from himself just yet. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe. 

"I'm stuck with the princess because her boss has a thing for me. Seems to think I can still be reformed." He rolled his eyes. "Poor lamb. I'm a constant source of disappointment." 

His voice was starting to sound more like it should, the mellow fullness of it starting to scrape away at the raw of disuse.  He let his eyes slide closed, no tension or worry in him at all.  He slid his fingers along the demon's cock, his own waking with just a little jump.

"You won't fuck with Sinclaires but you'll fuck with Avatars?" The demon laughed and shook his head. "Fuck Avatars and Faerie both, man." Balakai shifted, curling a little closer so Griffin could reach him more easily, knees splayed wide to give him access to his half-hard erection. His own hand dropped away to let Griffin have full access and instead he tucked the arm behind his head. His other fingers left off tracing scars to stroke the witch’s chest.

"I piss off everyone.  Always. I'm hateful and vengeful, selfish, petty, and bitter." Griffin sighed and made a kind of unspecific motion in the air with his hand, "Traitor to my kind and all that." He snorted.

"You sure fucking do."  He turned his head to nuzzle into Griffin's damp hair. "You've made an artform of it. I admire that."

"Misery loves company, does it?" The witch cracked an eye open, reasonable humor in his voice. He slid the pads of his fingers over the head of the demon’s cock, then gently ran them down the underside of him, as much tease as anything else because he didn't have the strength for much more. He was still exhausted, but he liked this. He didn't have to work so hard to just be right now, his mind still too new to spin in the reel of everything that usually made him so unbearable for most people.  

"And it isn’t all the Avatars, just the one that won't leave me alone. The rest of them hate me. They're not as scary as they seem. Maybe Echo. Bitch is crazy, but I kinda like it. Too many rules, that lot. Sinclaires meddle, you know? Always have. And they know too much." About him, in particular. He was sure that there was a book in their keeping that would hold the story of him. If he could have, he would have burned their whole compound to the ground to destroy it, but they'd never used anything they knew to move him in the world, so he let it go. Some day, he wouldn't.  

"I haven't found a compelling reason why I shouldn't serve myself first. Piety didn't work out." He grinned a little and brought his hand to his lips, running his tongue along his fingers to taste the demon with a little purr of sound and to wet his hand more before he set back to the task, still delicate about it, but not unskilled or lazy.

"I just don't want anyone to pay attention to me."  Balakai mused, eyes half closed.  He didn't really move under Griffin's touch but rather hedonistically enjoyed it. The lazy atmosphere and relative comfort kept him languid, for the moment. He'd been up for as long as Griffin had been sleeping on that couch, watching him. Now that the vigil was over he was steadily sliding towards drowsiness.

"Courts, Avatars, Houses- I just want them all to fuck off and leave me alone.  Just leave me to do what I want, when I want, in fucking peace."  He rumbled a low, irritable growl, then rolled his shoulders a little as if shaking off the tension.  He watched Griffin bring his fingers to his lips and there was a subtle shift in the laziness of him, a slight increase in intensity with how the hell hound watched him.  

"Do that again."

Griffin's lips pulled a little, pleased and he was slow as he trailed his finger's up the demon's shaft to the head of him, swirled them about it to collect all of the shining wet there before he looked up at him through his lashes and brought them back to his lips.  His tongue darted out in little tests, though his queer gaze was ever on the demon's face and he took a slow breath before he slid them as far as he could down his throat with a little moan.

Balakai's breath hissed softly between his teeth as he watched, and his fingers curled on Griffin's chest.  But his nails were blunt and he didn't make any move to push him.  Rather he settled more deeply into the pillows and curled his arm a little more tightly around the witch.

"You're a glorious slut, but you still look like death warmed over."

Griffin grinned over his fingers as he drew them slowly out of his mouth, licking them again as if making sure he hadn't missed anything.  

"Yes, on both accounts."  He settled into the demon, hand falling to rest lightly on his stomach as he failed to really fight much more to cling to wakefulness.  His expression was surprisingly unguarded, something more akin to ease than usual for him.  

"You love it," he whispered as his breathing grew deeper and true sleep drew him into the depths.  As on the couch, he neither moved nor made a sound, as if death still clung to him, but he looked less pale, the quality of him improving as his body recalled its purpose and how to perform its functions.