Griffin Summerville, witch hunter and pariah, is back in Boston for the first time in a long time to take a job for the Sinclaire family to hunt down an old lover. While he's settling back in, he realizes that his stalker has followed him across the pond and decides to confront him.
CW for suicide, psychological torture, alcohol, dubious consent, swearing, reference to necrophilia, implied murder, casual slurs, food, rough sex.
Word count: 13,000. Buckle up, it's a long one.
Mismatched blue and green eyes did not echo the almost innocent smile that curled at his generous lips, and Griffin ran a hand through the shoulder length waves of his perfectly lovely chestnut hair. There were deep scars around both wrists, but they were mostly hidden by the white cuffs of his expensive shirt, a pair of cufflinks that matched his eyes flashing as he swirled his glass of wine and considered what they were asking.
The pair across from him were like yin and yang; one tall, dark of hair and skin, and one eye bright gold. The other man was slight, silver eyed, and ash-haired, his skin like cream. They should not have fit together, and yet as he had observed them over the course of their meal and negotiations, he'd watched how they moved in almost choreographed perfection. Either from long practice or supernatural help, he could not help but assume. They were very pretty and it was worth coming out and letting them wine and dine him just to enjoy the art of them this close up.
"I assume your father let you know what my fee structure is? My services as a witch hunter do not come cheap." His voice was not overly high or low, rich and maybe almost accented. If it was there, it was very faint and hard to make out. English perhaps, but not quite right.
He tilted his head just a little to one side and kept a tight lid on his emotions other than the undeniable desire that could not be helped when in the presence of Relic Sinclaire. He cheated, lust daemon that he was. Griffin didn't mind, only that the daemon wouldn't make good on the not quite flirting and draw of his nature. Noah, his husband, was nothing but polite, but the witch did not have trouble guessing that he liked him little. It amused him and so he delighted in toying with the pale Head of the House of Sinclaire.
He remembered when first they had come across the Atlantic oh so long ago. A whole litter of them, to settle a new land. The Sinclaires were a meddlesome bunch then and nothing at all had changed. Their telltale silver eyes and cool arrogance. He'd avoided them for the most part. They didn't approve of him. Their approval was not required when they needed work done, however, and their money spent just fine. Plus, it was fun to watch this young master. He was curious how he'd found himself with a daemon, and one who had been a Templar, if rumors were true.
"It would be hard to find someone else to replace me. Not a lot of witches willing to be traitors to our kind to help people like you, but I might know one or two if you are desperate." His smile did not fade as he watched them across from him over the rim of his wine glass.
The pale blonde man was as sharply dressed, in a soft lavender that seemed to reflect in the true silver of his eyes. He wore white gloves on hands that were unnaturally still when he was not eating or drinking. He gestured very little when he spoke, and when he did it was always with direct purpose. He'd let his husband carry much of the small talk, though he'd said enough to maintain a presence in the conversation.
It was not the most relaxed business dinner Noah had been to.
From the moment he'd sat down, the empath had been put off by the witch. But he smiled politely and went through the motions because his father had been clear. Griffin Summerville was a pain in the ass. He had to be, to a degree, coaxed and flattered. He was expensive. But he was without equal when it came to tracking and stopping his own kind, as long as you were willing to stay out of his way.
"I'm aware of your typical fee structure and I have no problem paying your usual rate." His voice was a little lower than one might expect from the slight build. "You are particularly well suited to the problem we have at hand." He inclined his head to Relic, grateful they were finally getting to the actual business of the evening. When the daemon passed the packet across the table, he continued.
"You lived with the Orwic Coven ten years ago. Do you recall Julian Rhodes?"
Griffin stilled, though he managed to keep his smile so that it did not immediately fade from his handsome face. He was all classically bold planes and drama, with long lashes and dramatic brows. He swirled his wine a little too long and let the smile fade more naturally before he met the silvery gaze of the other man.
"I do." Though his voice remained oddly light and seemingly careless, something about him seemed to have sharpened and he set down the glass, forsaking his casual bearing.
His suit was immaculately tailored, hematite gray, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. He did not hide the iteration of several scars along his throat. Some were wide, like rope, others thin as a blade.
"I shouldn't be surprised that the Sinclaires have taken the time to dig into little ol' me." He reached across the table and stole Relic's tumbler of neat scotch. The daemon didn't even blink. Only studied him now with a look that was razor sharp.
"So I understood." Noah smiled, though it was more polite than pleased. He shifted to pick up his glass which held only ice water. He'd drunk nothing else, though they'd ordered a good bottle of wine with the meal. There was a tiny part of him that was irritated by some shallow similarities between the two of them. They both wore silver cufflinks- Noah's were opal, not colored stones. Their shirts were different colors, but neither wore a tie, leaving their shirts open at the collars. And both of their suits were grey, though Noah's a lighter shade. Physically, they were very different. Noah was a touch on the short side of average, Griffin was tall. Both of them relatively slender. Griffin was more strong featured, Noah more delicate. From there, they diverged entirely but even the small things irked him. He tamped down on the feeling.
The witch leaned forward on his elbows, steepling long fingers. "Causing trouble for you, is he?"
Noah did not lean forward to engage when the witch did, remaining precisely as he was.
"He is, and I know when to outsource to an expert." He inclined his head slightly. "We are prepared to offer a living stipend for the duration of your work, unless you'd prefer to live in provided housing?"
Now he did lean forward, though not quite so far, mimicking the elbows on the table but rather than steeple his fingers he folded his hands under his chin. That little motion and a subtle change in the tilt of his head gave him a certain boyish air. "I thought the stipend might be more accomodating for your particular tastes."
Griffin's expression sharpened, much of the sweet about him shattered by a look that was clearly more comfortable on his face.
"Are we interested in pursuing this topic, Sinclaire?" His appreciative glance undressed Relic without a shred of chagrin. "Lust daemons are a... delight, aren't they?" He leaned back again and took the cup nonchalantly between his fingers, more to do something with his hands than anything else.
Relic gave the witch a raised eyebrow. "I am the picture of propriety. Let's not ruin a productive evening by getting heated." And there was a flicker in the taller man's one remaining eye as it went cat slit. The other was hidden behind a long fall of raven hair. Anything that even remotely sounded like a threat to Noah called the wrath of him that was second only to lust.
The witch shrugged and chuckled. "Terms accepted. Under one condition," And Griffin turned his attention back to Noah.
"I want to see if the rumors are true. Relic Night Sinclaire on his knees in front of me is worth the anger of House Sinclaire." He didn't lose his smile this time, even when Relic made to stand and it was only Noah's hand on his knee that halted the motion. "What? It's not like I want to keep you. I just want to know what it was that Andriel was willing to burn the world to keep. Can't blame me for being curious." He drained his wine glass with a quiet chuckle, clearly amused.
"Unacceptable, I'm possessive." Noah's response was quick, and his smile almost saccharine. The only movement he'd made had been to drop his hand to Relic's knee. The other stayed under his chin, and he did not settle back even when Griffin did.
"So, do you have another condition or are we done playing games?"
"Would it help if I said you could come too. You're pretty." Griffin’s smile was savage and he laughed, waving his free hand a little absently. "Yeah, we're done. That's fine. Though, I need to know what you want done with him. No terms means I get to do as I please... and I think you must know by now how I please." Griffin wasn't unaware of his reputation. He'd forged it over bloody centuries.
"Don't get the police involved or cause collateral and I don't care." Noah's voice went cold and he slid to his feet, Relic rising very nearly in unison. He rested a hand lightly on the daemon's lower back and nudged him away from the table, stopping by their waiter to pay before they left.
Griffin shook his head and was not at all surprised to see them go. He had dealt plenty with Sinclaires over the years. While he was a pariah among his people, he didn't much care. What could they do? Kill him. That was a laugh. Plenty had tried to keep him in the ground. He was assured in the arrogance of a few things simultaneously, that there wasn't a witch with his kind of power in most of the United States, and that he was likely the lesser of most evils. As with all things in the trade of magic, there was a cost and he'd long ago run out of fucks for being gentile and pleasing anyone but himself.
He finished the bottle of very nice wine alone, content enough to watch the people about him. He was annoyingly wet after sitting near and teasing the lust daemon, so there had to be someone who might be good for something. These posh shits wanted to play at propriety, but he knew the black of their souls. Of most men. He'd destroyed his own so long ago that he didn't even remember what it felt like anymore. The time before he had been this, so far gone that it wasn't even memory anymore. Just glimpses of soft laughter and family in early colonial New England. He didn't even have enough left to miss it most of the time.
He wet a finger in the last dregs of wine from his glass and tipped the salt shaker so it scattered across the white cloth. Griffin traced patterns in wine and salt, spinning out threads of magic into the sigils. Mismatched eyes caught those of a good looking young man in a perfectly tailored suit, though he tugged his tie and shifted in a way that said he wasn’t used to wearing it. For a long moment the witch held his gaze, until he saw the way the man’s eyes went from bored, to confused by Griffin’s stare, and then slowly to interest. His lips turned in an arrogant little twist of a smile and Griffin knew that he had him. The witch bit his bottom lip and rose, heading to the bathroom. It was only a few minutes before the stranger joined him and he didn't pause to lock the door before he pressed himself to the muscle bound of the man, one hand catching his jaw and the other palming his cock. Griffin moaned as he kissed him hard, the taste of wine still dry on his lips.
It did not take long for the other man to get hard and as soon as he was, Griffin slid to his knees and undid his belt, freeing his cock and taking it whole without hesitation. His own hand slid to the need of himself, wet and wanting and he stroked himself as the other man made quiet grunts of pleasure. He hallowed his cheeks and sucked hard, all demand and determined grace. When he'd driven him to the edge and he felt the other man's hand slide into his hair, he grabbed his wrist hard and stood.
“I want you to fuck me,” the witch demanded, shoving his own pants down and moving so that he could be bent over the counter.
The man didn't hesitate, grabbing him by the hips and lining himself up. He hesitated a moment, unsure, and Griffin made an annoyed sound.
"Stupid fuck," he almost laughed and reached around to position him so that he could fuck his cunt. He took one of the man's hands and set it on his hard, swollen clit. "What're you, a virgin?"
With a snarl, the man fisted his other hand in Griffin’s auburn hair and slammed into him. He moaned- after the hour long dinner sitting across from a lust daemon and dealing with the aura and the tease of it, he wouldn't be long.
While he wasn’t the best lay, the man rode him hard and the rough handling was exactly what he wanted. Griffin felt the heat rise in him and carry him over into climax. He let the man grunt and thrust for a while longer, until someone opened the unlocked door and made him pause. Griffin straightened in the face of the newcomer and flashed the stunned older man a grin as he shoved the other man off him and pulled up his pants. He turned back to his fuck and gave his dumbfounded but admittedly handsome face a pat on the cheek. “Thanks for dessert.”
He sauntered out of the bathroom and headed for the bar.
The house he rented on the Sinclaire’s dime was a ridiculous affair for a single person to occupy. One of those posh brownstones that showed very well in architecture magazines with pantone walls and a perfectly modern back green. The hedges were tall and the patio was set for a proper dinner party with an outdoor kitchen and Edison lighting. It cost a fortune, which simultaneously pleased him and meant very little. He wasn't about to change his lifestyle for even one moment just because he was working. He traveled almost constantly, and if there was one thing that he had decided in his long life it was that Griffin was going to fill his endlessness with every vice, excess, and beauty that he damned well pleased.
And he pleased, a lot.
He’d whiled away the first couple days re-familiarizing himself with the neighborhood. It had been a while since he’d spent time in Boston proper. He found a bar that wasn’t too far from his place that suited his aesthetic requirements and tonight had chosen to go out- after all, he’d yet to christen the new townhouse. There had been a few tempting fish, but this pretty piece had been just perfect and after making him beg a little, Griffin had taken him home and fucked him stupid. He was now lounging in the large, clawfoot tub that dominated the center of the white tiled bathroom. Griffin waved a casual hand and the candles set all around it lit and dramatic fashion. The young blonde man blinked hazily, so drunk that he clearly didn’t know what he’d just seen. The witch slid into the steaming water and pulled the smaller man into his lap, pulling him back against his chest.
"Do be a love and hand me that razor, would you?" The witch's voice was laden and a more trained ear might have heard the cruelty in it. He was sated, but still bored and he did not handle boredom overly well.
It was an antique silver thing, the handle of it carved walrus tusk from the early nineteenth century. The straight blade that opened out of the handle was kept in perfect order, whisper sharp. Pretty and drunk gave him a slightly curious look but he ran his free hand around to his jaw and made the young man face forward in front of him as he lazily ground against his ass.
"You're not some serial killer, are you?" He asked, his voice a little high and clearly starting to spook. Griffin loved that sound, the one where they just started to not quite panic, but their heart began to race and their mind reel.
"I am, in fact, I just don't kill other people very often." He chuckled low, brushing lips along his shoulder, biting a little hard on his shoulder cap so that he would leave marks there. Ones that would be seen for a while.
"Wh-what does that mean?" He tried to turn again and Griffin reached around his chest and pulled the golden-haired man hard against him, fingers splayed across his chest and resting almost at his throat.
"Have you ever been so very, so inescapably disinterested in life that even if it was only for a little while, and even if it meant you had to die, you were willing to do so just for some fucking nothing?" Griffin turned over his arm that pinned the other man against him so that his forearm was turned up and visible. There were a number of marks there, uncountable lines that ran from his elbow to his wrist which itself was terribly mangled with scars.
"N-no, Look I-"
"Need to shut the fuck up. I'm trying to share something with you, prettiness. Let daddy teach you one of life's most important lessons: do as you please. There is nothing waiting for you on the other side. Nothing you do, no goodness or virtue, will matter. So revel. And fuck it if people get in the way. None of them matter anyway."
Griffin pulled the young man’s arm up, found his hand and pressed the handle of the blade into his palm. Forced his fingers close around it. Then with excruciating strength and slowness, he forced the hand towards his own wrist. The witch hissed as he forced the blond’s hand, pushing the blade into his forearm and dragging down the length, opening another new furrow. The man in his lap made a soft mewl of terror and shock, struggling a little but too drunk and shocked to mount an effective escape.
"Patience, precious. It doesn't take long. Aren't you the least bit curious what it's like to watch someone die?" His mismatched eyes glowed with amusement and malice. Blood poured from the open wound and into the water, turning it into a horror show.
"You're crazy! Let me go!" He tried to thrash about but Griffin brought the blade to his throat while he watched the blood swirl into the water, like ink pretty against his skin.
"Sit still. You can leave when I'm done. Thrash too much and you'll join me." He hissed into his ear as he kissed his neck. Griffin felt the other man begin to sob, a hiccuping, broken weeping as he cowered and tried to keep from moving too much or making too much noise. As though afraid it might make Griffin follow through on his threat. It didn't take long, as he had promised. He felt the agonizing dizziness that filled him with fucked up heat. The hand holding the blade fell and the poor thing didn't hesitate to flounder out of the bath, slipping on the wet tile as he scrambled to flee the nightmare behind him.
Griffin chuckled, breathless, and let his head fall back, eyes fluttering and breath growing more shallow. It hurt, god it hurt, but it was also ecstasy and he always wished he had the strength to touch himself while he died because he imagined it would have been one hell of a go. Minutes ticked by and he grew pale until at last his breath stopped and everything went cold.
Someone splashed water, gone utterly icy, in his face and he sputtered ungracefully. He made a face as the iron of his blood in the water touched his lips.
"Must you be so dramatic?" Came a low and wine rich voice he knew too well.
"Who called you, Velorum? I didn't invite you to this little suicide." Griffin cracked his eyes open and saw from the light coming through the windows that it was at least midday. He glared at the man who was perched on the balls of his feet on a nearby stool, just regarding him with long suffering patience. He had long black hair that fell in cascades down his back. Besides the hair he looked like a punk kid in a black hoodie with some kind of cartoon on it and black cargo pants over hardly laced, beat up, combat boots. His eyes were large and unearthly lavender, his features near feminine and pretty, sharp and not quite human.
Death himself just regarded the witch with his usual dispassion, elbows resting on his knees and hands loose between them. "Not that I have much opinion on your affairs, Griffin, but must you traumatize other people for your misanthropy?"
Griffin made a groan of discomfort as he moved to haul himself out of the bloody mess of bathwater, not shy about Velorum seeing him in such a state. The fatal wound to his arm had healed, just one more scar to join the others. They were the only ones that seemed to remain, marks of the wounds that actually killed him. He crossed over to the rack and pulled down a large, white towel to wrap around himself.
"You don't usually show up much anymore when I kick it. What the fuck do you want?" He wasn't in a mood to listen to him cluck over his behavior. They'd gone their rounds aplenty and he didn't intend to go again.
Velorum gave a little huff of a sigh and just watched the other man. "You are working for the House of Sinclaire?"
Now he stopped and glared. "Why do you care?"
Velorum's usually placid face turned almost... what was that? Embarrassment? Could it even be? "Noah is my friend, and Relic too. I should not like you to be cruel and cause them trouble, please."
Griffin stared at him in near incomprehension. "Since when do you have friends, Vel?"
Now Velorum's features went sharp and even Griffin knew when to have care. Velorum had no more understanding of why he never stayed dead than he himself did, but he'd already learned that didn't mean he couldn't make him suffer. He put out his hands and shook his head. "Too far, too far, I get it. Leave the Silver Prince and his fuck daemon alone. Got it."
Velorum pursed his lips and frowned. "I mean it, Griffin. Noah is also my Scion's godson and Dark will be very cross if you trouble them. She does not normally concern herself with affairs beyond her House, but if you-"
"Jesus, Vel, I get it. Just do the job and fuck off. I've worked for the Sinclaires plenty over the years and you've never given a shit. I may be a selfish, self destructive, monster, but I am a professional. I like my lifestyle and don't need the Sinclaires ill will to make that harder than it has to be." He crossed over to the tub to pull the drain on it to let the icy water empty and headed to the large bedroom he'd claimed while he was here.
"You wanna cup of tea while you're here?" He dropped the towel and shrugged into a plush robe, wrinkling his nose at the smell of himself. He'd have a shower once he ate. He always woke up starving.
The Avatar moved with annoying silence and Griffin almost jumped when he heard his voice just beyond his shoulder. "Are you... are you alright, Griffin? I know it is nearing the anniversary of-"
The witch's hand darted out and his fingers found the throat of the slightly taller man. "Finish that sentence and we'll see if you can die," he threatened in a cold voice. Velorum didn't even twitch, just looked at him with mild exasperation as he slowly peeled Griffin's fingers from his skin and took a step back.
"You are always a piece of work this time of year. I would not mind if you gave it a rest sometimes. I have work to do besides mind the deaths of one wayward witch boy who gets off on performative suicide."
"It's only performative if I don't actually mean it, Velorum, which you know I very much do. Be a love and do your job one of these times?" He patted the Avatar's face as if he’d let him go on purpose rather than having been forced to and strode out to the stark, modern kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. There were tall windows that let in the gray summer light. A storm was brewing in the Atlantic, he could feel it, casting the whole world in iron. Griffin leaned against the white counter and crossed his arms over his chest. "Is that all you wanted? To tell me to play nice with your friends and remind me that no matter how many times I try you're going to be a horrible hold out?"
His eyes were dark, skin still a little sallow even though he'd risen and healed enough that no one would have known he'd been dead less than an hour before.
Velorum didn't let the other man's sharpness get to him. He'd known Griffin since the first time he'd died, and been rather surprised that he hadn't remained that way. He rummaged about in his cupboards and not finding anything he wanted, he contented himself with an apple from the basket on the stark countertop. He hopped up to sit on the island across from the witch and he studied him for a moment.
"Mostly came to check on you. Sometimes you are not a complete asshole and tolerable."
"Gross. This new boyfriend is making you soft. I liked you better when you were agonizing over your dead girlfriend."
Velorum might have risen to the bait some decades ago, but he was accustomed to Griffin finding the places that hurt most and twisting the knife. "Misery loves company?"
"Perhaps. You've betrayed me by finding happiness. I hate it." Griffin didn't dissemble.
The avatar shrugged. "You have had plenty of chances, Griffin Summerville. You just always choose to destroy them."
He waved a hand negligently. "Yes, yes, I'm a nasty, horrible, bitter, scarred, hateful man incapable of getting past my trauma. I love my life." His smile was cold.
Velorum just shrugged. "I doubt that, but as you will. I remember what drove you here, and that you were not always this. I remember that there was kindness and love in you once." He wasn't sure why he felt the need to remind him, only that he felt a little responsible for the unwilling immortal. Griffin had been an oddity for a long time and life had given him little for which to be thankful. But, he'd also made his own choices and many of those had been his own ruin.
Griffin gave a huff, glare boring into the meddlesome avatar. "Once. Yes. But no more. I burned away the soft in blood and vengeance across centuries, Velorum. And I have no wish to go back to the way I was. The world did not deserve me when I was soft and so now it gets my sharp. One of these days you'll tire of torturing me and let me die for real."
With a sigh, the taller man jumped down from the counter, taking a bite from his apple. "Not my call, as well you know. We would have, if only to spare you, if We could have. Long ago." There was compassion in his voice and expression as the shadows of the room began to move toward him.
"Don't," Griffin near growled. "I neither need nor want your pity, Velorum."
"And you have neither, Griffin. Only that I wish things had been different for you. I think I always hope that you will choose to be more than you have become."
"Then you will be eternally disappointed. I don't owe anyone to be other than I am. The world had its chance. I live for myself alone now."
"No," Velorum countered as the shadows curled around him gently, "You do not live at all." For a moment there was a disconcerting spot of darkness, too deep for the natural shadows of the room. Then it dispersed, leaving Griffin alone in the room.
The witch made a disgusted noise and poured his coffee, hissing at the heat of it as it hit his tongue. He drank it down, still feeling empty and hollow and now suddenly disinclined to be alone. He showered, dressed, and headed out for a walk.
Lounging across the steps of the brownstone across the street, just a few stairs down from the door, a young man sprawled. His legs were kicked up, combat boots resting on the wrought iron rail, legs clad in black and white awning stripe jeans with brass zippers running from knee to ankle that would've done Beetlejuice proud. He wore a red plaid jack with little puffed sleeves over a faded My Little Pony shirt that looked like it might've been picked up from the children's section of a thrift store and only fit because he was a remarkable petite individual. The stomach on display as he stretched was all tightly defined muscle, as were the fishnet clad arms under the bunched up jacket sleeves. A curl of smoke rose from the cigarette dangling between his fingers.
His hair was pastel blue leaning green as it faded, clearly not dyed recently enough to keep up the color and he had a prominent silver septum. His face was all sharp, hard planes, equal parts boyish and not. Something like a demented cupid. The eyes that slit open to look at Griffin as he stepped out the front door were burnished gold and his lips curled in a slow, easy smile.
"You look like shit." His voice was light and easy and pitched loud enough to be heard across the quiet street.
Griffin paused misstep and just glared. He'd pulled on a dark burgundy tailored button down over dark jeans and fine Italian shoes. His chestnut hair was an artful mess and nothing made him look less hungover or unwell. There were dark circles under his eyes and his lips were pale. What he needed was a steak and some greens and then a long nap while he decided how to approach the job that he'd taken. Velorum's little visit had well and truly killed his buzz and he was annoyed about it. He'd intended to fuck with the Sinclaire and his pretty husband, but he really wasn't interested in more of the supernatural world crawling up his ass. He had enough with pretty much every witch on earth hating him.
Not that he had ever gone out of his way to endear himself to literally anyone in several hundred years, but still.
He glared across the street at the fashion disaster, as he saw him, and narrowed his eyes. So, he hadn't just been seeing things. He was sure he'd seen him before, the boyish features that could have been mistaken for youth at first until you really studied him and realized that he was a grown ass man. Demons were funny that way though, and he was at least passing curious why this one was stalking him. And had been for years. He caught him out of the corner of his eye sometimes, leaning in a doorway smoking or high atop a building. Mostly when he was in Europe. He'd lose him, it seemed, when he was too far afield working as he often was for long stretches. There weren't a lot of witches with his skills, and fewer still willing to be pariahs.
The fact that the demon had spoken up after all of this time was a slightly interesting distraction from his brooding. They never could hide the eyes, demons. It gave them away every time. Curiosity got the better of him and he crossed the street. He leaned down, stealing the cigarette and taking a long drag.
"What, don't think I'm pretty today?" He leaned on the rail casually.
The demon didn't try to keep the cigarette, his grin broadening and flashing teeth that for a brief moment looked too sharp and too many for his mouth before the image of them settled to perfectly normal human teeth. Instead, he rolled to his feet with a sort of sinewy, animal grace. He moved into the other man's space, crowding him against the rail.
"Now I didn't say that. I said you looked like shit. Very pretty shit, but still shit." The demon curled fingers in the burgundy of his shirt, tugging to bunch it up above the waist of Griffin's jeans to reveal a little flash of skin that made his grin turn utterly smug. "Good night, I'm assuming, from the way that twink ran half-ass naked and covered in blood out of your place last night? He tasted good."
Griffin didn't so much as move a muscle except to smoke.
"Did you eat him?" He finally met the demon's fiery golden gaze, not actually as uncomfortable with his stalker in his space as he probably should have been. After all, what was the worst he could do? Kill him? Torture him? Wouldn't that be delightfully exciting? He made a ring of the smoke and stared down the much shorter man, not quite daring him but not at all afraid. Now that he was this close to him, he couldn't help but be a little curious.
"And the night was fine. Nothing to write home about but I've had worse. He cried like a bitch, though, when I threatened him. That was more enjoyable than the passable sex." He shrugged.
Balakai reached and took the cigarette out of Griffin's mouth and brought it to his own to smoke.
"Is it hotter if I did?" He laughed and shook his head, flicking the ash off the end of the cigarette. "Only a little. Had to make sure I was in the right place. He tasted like you, so I figured rumors were true."
He took another drag and blew the smoke into Griffin's face, nudging a knee between the other man's legs and wedging his narrow hips close up against his.
"Don't you ever get tired of that? Seems boring to me. There are much more interesting ways to die than by- what, slitting your wrists?" He reached up and shoved Griffin's chin up with a surprisingly strong hand. "You didn't slash your throat this time."
This time Griffin did pause a little, a frown of apprehension not quite pulling at his brows when the other man grabbed him. There were, at least, the very barest level of self preservation alarm bells that went off. While he could not remain dead, it seemed, that didn't mean that his human brain ever fully accepted that. Part of what always drove him was the contest of his will over the instincts of his humanity that never wholly vanished. Right now it screamed at him to run, to flee as far as he could get from this stranger who knew far too much about him. As reckless as he seemed, he didn’t advertise his coming back from the grave trick.
"You wanna simp for my bath water now?" He was pleased that he kept his voice almost entirely level.
"Poison makes me feel like shit for a week and has less of an immediate effect on whatever tail I wanna torment. Throat is too quick. Sometimes classics are best." He smiled coldly. "You like my sloppy seconds, eh? That your fetish? Stalk hot witches and suck off their traumatized leftovers? That's weird, man."
"Throat doesn't have to be quick. Really though, you should try that bit in Prague again but with someone with bigger balls. It's too bad he noticed you passing out and out of the kindness of his heart he stopped fucking you long enough to make sure you were okay." The demon let go of the witch's chin and stubbed out the butt of the cigarette on his dress shirt.
"Only you, babe. Griffin Summerville has a one of a kind attraction." The gold of his eyes reflected the sunlight, sharp and bright.
The witch was starting to regret his curiosity and understood with new found clarity why it got so many felines killed. He'd spotted the demon on any number of occasions and hadn't been stupid enough to wholly ignore it, but had assumed it was just someone keeping tabs on his movements. Like any normal reconnaissance. Maybe some lord of a city was concerned about him, but he hadn’t been too concerned. After all, what could they do to him? That he had been so intimately watched, however, was a new level of uncomfortable and cracked the veneer of arrogant self-assurance with which he moved through the world.
"If you wanna watch me fuck, join my OnlyFans. Leave my poor shirt out of it." He placed a hand on the demon's chest and tried to push him back a little.
The demon shoved back, pressing him against the hard stone and wrought iron. "Nah, I don't have to pay when your window's right fucking there." He leaned in and nuzzled under the man's chin, breathing in sharply as if taking the scent of him. He didn't exactly laugh. But, with the whole of him pressed up against the witch, it was easy to feel the growl that reverberated through his chest.
The witch's breath stuttered in his chest a moment and he wasn't exactly sure what to do. He was quite accustomed to being the power in his world, in doing as he pleased or didn't because he rarely allowed anyone close to him who could have managed to deny him or stop him. As much as his flight response was screaming in the back of his mind and he could taste the metallic of it in his throat, he could not deny that it was also wildly hot and he was just about instantly wet. After all, his favorite turn on was terrible decisions and demons were, universally, just about the worst. The demon was pressed into him and Griffin could smell the slight hint of sulfur that all of them had. Griffin felt the low rumble of him and it sent a little shiver up his spine.
The demon eased back abruptly, putting a step between them. He linked his hands behind his head, grinning for all the world like a fool. "Let's get a drink."
Once he had space, Griffin could breathe. He was annoyed as he felt the tension in him almost immediately drain away. What he should have done was walk back the fuck across the street and pretend that this had never happened. He was the one who'd been a dumbass and engaged the stalker, not the other way around. He'd started this. But he had a thing for terrible and this was interesting. If he was going to be stuck in Boston for a while and since this little shit seemed intent on following him around, he was going to amuse himself in the process. After all, what was the worst that could happen?
"Who are you even?" Griffin asked as he shoved his hands in his pockets and descended the steps, waiting at the bottom for the demon.
The demon watched him, the burnished gold of his eyes all heat and intent. He could smell the other man, the scent of that edge of fear and arousal lingering with the more powerful smell of his soap and shampoo. The smaller man followed close behind him and when they were both down on the sidewalk he slid a hand under the back of Griffin's shirt, the sharp of his nails pricking against his skin. Escorting him along the sidewalk with a little push.
"Balakai." There was no obfuscation in the quick, almost chirpy response. Just a direct reply and a sort of sideways glance and lopsided smirk. "Don't worry, you probably haven't heard of me."
Balakai set the pace, moving with almost manic energy. "I normally stay the hell out of Boston. And the states in general. What's good around here?"
There was a moment when Griffin almost summoned magic to shock the handsy demon because he was used to being the aggressor, not because he actually cared if he had hands on him. He couldn't suppress the little shiver that crawled up his spine at the feel of the sharp nails on his skin, imagining the little constellations of blood that were blooming on his flesh. It was unlikely that he'd actually broken the skin, but the witch wouldn't have minded so much.
"Balakai," he repeated with a raised eyebrow. "That your real name?"
He knew it wasn't. Demons, like faery, were very fussy about their names. Could be commanded if people held them. There was something a little off about the demon, though, other than the manic, chaotic energy of him. Griffin had interacted with any number of them, had even summoned a few, and so he was familiar with the general feel of them. How their magic bled into the world. It was much more subtle than theological texts might inflate. Balakai just felt more present than Griffin had felt before and it made him choose a little more caution than he might have otherwise.
Balakai’s nails continued to move in little taps and caresses as they walked, as though moved by some music of his own. He didn't even look at Griffin at the question, though something about his smile grew sharp. "Sure is."
Griffin madea little noise of disbelief.
"I don't live here normally, you seem to know that. Been a few decades since I was in town. Seafood's good, I guess." He might have manipulated him into taking him somewhere nice, but Griffin was quite sure that none of the kinds of places that he liked to frequent would let the little delinquent through the doors. He gave him an appraising look and his expression was droll. "Nowhere worth a shit would let you in looking like that, so options are kind of limited, pal."
Balaki pointed out a fish and chips place that looked rather like it would either be amazing or give them food poisoning and with a bump of his hip and a shove of his palm he nudged the witch towards it. "Beer and fried food, then, if you're afraid of your sommelier turning his nose up at me. I look hot."
"If you think so then that doesn't speak well of me, I guess. You're a dumpster fire, Stalker Boy." Griffin pondered if he wanted to try and bind him for funsies, to see it the demon really was that stupid and arrogant as to just hand out his true name. He decided that he would do a little more research on him. As much power as he had, witchcraft exacted a wicked high price when used with too little preparation, and at the moment it wasn’t a price he felt like paying.
"I've been called worse." Balakai shrugged.
The restaurant was fine. Clean, modern enough, unremarkable. Griffin smiled winningly at the host person and let them lead the pair to a booth to one side. Little nautical themed pendant lights hung down above them, the vinyl seats worn but uncracked. There was a little caddy of condiments, including malt vinegar, at the far end of the table by the wall and menus stuck into it. He grabbed his own and didn't give one to Balakai and just studied the listing in front of him. He was starving, but had to be somewhat careful about what he ate. He didn't stay dead, but his body still suffered and now he got to pay for his drama.
The demon didn't look up over the menu when he asked, "Why have you been stalking me anyway? I can't possibly be that interesting. What's in it for you?"
He largely ignored the staff, lounging into the booth across from Griffin rather than scooting in directly next to him, which might have been the obvious choice given the way he’d been crowding into his space. He plucked a menu from the stand, flipping it open and barely glancing at it. Apparently satisfied, he set it aside and began fiddling with the silverware left on the table, balancing them into a pyramid and stacking sugar packets precariously on top.
"How are you not interesting? You've spiralled yourself into all sorts of wickedness without any help at all. You can get back up when someone kills you. What's not to like?" He abandoned his project, propping his chin in one hand as he leaned across the table. "How does that work anyway? Do you grow back limbs if someone rips one off? You can't have been as nasty as you have been for as long as you have been without getting pretty horribly mutilated and yet here you are with nothing but some pretty scars."
Griffin made a little short of sound. The fact that he didn’t stay dead wasn’t something that he really advertised. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was functionally immortal, only that he was. He still felt the pain of every death. He still had to drag his sorry ass out of the grave if he died too messy. And he still had to have care about who knew because there would be those who would do their best to make sure he didn’t come back, or conversely who would seek to replicate his condition, regardless of what that meant for him. "Yes. The duration of my death is dependent on how severe the damage. Once my body reaches a point at which it can sustain itself again, I get to wake up. Hours... days..." and the last with a little contrary mix of relief and dread, "months."
He found something that would suffice on the menu and tossed it down on the table, lounging back with his arms crossed over his chest, frown back on his face. "Why? Planning to test it out?" He knew it wasn't the wisest plan to tempt a demon, but he wasn't inclined to care. "I don’t need anyone’s help to be wicked. There's no point in not pleasing myself, so I don't bother."
"Absolutely." Balakai grinned and for a moment the smell of brimstone was stronger, and his eyes darkened almost to amber. Then with a shift of light it was gone and he laughed, delighted. The server stopped by and he ordered a beer with the special. He watched Griffin with catty delight, as if everything he said or did was utterly fascinating. And it was. Perhaps obsession was unhealthy, but since when had demons ever been accused of being healthy?
He leaned back and shrugged out of the plaid jacket, crumpling it on the seat next to him. The t-shirt underneath stretched tight across square shoulders, the fishnet only reaching his elbows. Deep, green-black ink peeked out from under the edges of the sleeves and the collar of his shirt. "Truth, but only a few people fall so far without a little help. I suppose your help came at the hand of fellow man a long time ago. Can you get pregnant?"
The witch shivered a little at Balakai's affirmation of intent and it wasn't wholly unpleasant. He felt every bit of pain from his deaths. If there was a way to die, he was almost certain that he'd enjoyed it. Or not. Some were just horrible and not something he'd have chosen to endure again if given a choice. It was possible that the demon was just teasing him, trying to get a rise, but he was pretty sure that he wasn't. Not when the truth was possibly more damaging. It was one of Griffin's favorite plays. People did not expect agonizing honesty.
"Could before I had my insides magically scooped out. Sold that useless shit along with my tits for wine money in the late sixteen hundreds. Pretty sure the dying all the time wouldn't have helped anyway." He was not the least bit private about most aspects of his life. Griffin was too old to give much of a fuck what anyone thought and had been through more hell than most demons. Only most of it was self-inflicted. He'd been innocent in the beginning, same as anyone else.
"Mmm, I'm not sure if that's good or a shame. But wine money sounds like a good trade." He set into his fish and chips and beer, tucking a napkin haphazardly down into his lap in what was possibly one of his only nods to manners.
"It's good. This is me. That wasn't. Sure worked to get me killed, though." Griffin didn't try to veil the bitterness in his voice. It was like vinegar.
"Why do you give out your name?" Seemed they were going to play Twenty Questions. He dug into his spinach salad, for all it looked a little worse for wear. Clearly not their specialty.
"Because I can." Balakai paused eating, studied his basket of food for a moment, then dabbed the grease from his lips with an almost prim motion. His eyes narrowed slightly at Griffin, and he turned his head a little aside, almost coy. "You going to try and put a spell on lil ol' me?"
"Absolutely," he returned the demon's words back at him without even a moment of chagrin. His mismatched eyes held those of burnished gold. "Why wouldn't I? I haven't had a pet in ages and fuck if you don't already follow me everywhere. Might even let you sleep at the foot of my bed and fetch my slippers. We're going to need to get you to the groomer, though." His voice was light, but there was always something almost hard in it. That thread of bitterness that was woven into everything about him.
He drank his wine and reminded himself to eat slowly. Blood loss was a bitch and he'd just puke it all up if he ate too fast.
"I'd love to see you try." Balakai purred and leaned back in the booth. He'd cleared his plate much faster than Griffin was working through his salad, but the demon seemed unworried by it, doing nothing to suggest impatience. Instead he simply stretched up and back, shirt riding up and pants clinging very low on his hips, hints of matching ink peeping under the hem of the shirt and curling around his hips from the back to dip under the waistband of his pants.
"You complain about how I look but you look like every other Joe walking off of Pinterest. You look much better naked and well fucked. Maybe I'll keep you at the end of my bed just like that."
Griffin actually chuckled despite himself. "Indeed I do. Still super fucked up that you know that, though."
He didn't address the threat because he was beginning to understand that it was just part of the back and forth developing between them. Any sane and rational human being would have been horrified to have their privacy so invaded and the fact spoken to display as if it were nothing, but he wasn't either of those things. He valued privacy only to the extent that he pretty much hated everyone and didn't feel like dealing with most folks, and as far as secrecy was required to keep the witch hunt away from his doorstep. There were times when he simply ached for quiet and release from being in the world.
"How long have you been watching? And... why?" He motioned absently with his fork while he finished the glass of wine and motioned for another. It was boring and far too dry, but it was something.
Balakai shifted, stretching his legs out and kicking Griffin's legs apart so he could rest the heel of one boot on the booth seat between the witch's legs. A little experimenting and he found he just had to bend his foot a little to press the tread into the witch's groin.
"On and off? Years. What, do you think I keep track?" He snorted and rolled his shoulders, reaching up to run both hands through his fading pastel hair.
"I saw you once, in London, hunting a witch. You got cornered by a coven and absolutely nuked. It was hilarious to watch- me and a couple buddies were taking bets. Lost a hundred bucks on that bet, but then surprise surprise I saw you walking around a few days later. When you hunted them down one by one, I won a grand off you." He looked entirely too self satisfied. "Besides, I was bored. Didn't have anything better to do."
A grin that was completely satisfied curled at Griffin’s generous lips and his eyes sparkled. "My favorite trick. 'Surprise, witches, I'll be back in a few days. Not so much for you.' No one ever expects you to drop a singularity on yourself." He shook his head, chestnut hair caressing his shoulders. "I love that part of the job. When they think they're safe. And then the ghost shows back up and they forget to whom they should be praying." He pushed away his plate, not much of the field green salad left and none of the steak that had been on it. He felt a measure more steady and now that he didn't have to work so hard to keep his hands from shaking, he leaned back and only raised an eyebrow at Balakai's foot in his space.
"If you want something better to do you should suck my dick." And he took a sip of wine, absolutely serious.
Balakai considered for a moment, the tip of his tongue running out between his teeth and flashing the piercing in it. He caught the barbell between his teeth, fiddled for a moment, then gave a little shrug. "Sure."
The demon slithered into the shadows under the table. His fingers reached up, curling into the waistband of the witch's pants, and from the shadows the gold of his eyes glowed. "If you want to have pants to wear home, lift up your hips."
The taller man did as commanded and helped the demon get access to his jeans.
"No biting. I can't afford to lose any blood for a few days." It was literally his only concern. Not that they were clearly visible, not that it was midday in downtown Boston, not that Balakai was a demon who had admitted to stalking and watching him for years. Griffin was actually kind of amused about the fact, now that he somewhat understood the context.
"What's it going to do, kill you?" Balakai snorted, the derisiveness familiar but his voice had dropped low and husky. He tugged Griffin's pants down just far enough to get free access to his cunt.
"Literally will," Griffin huffed, amused. For all that the supernatural world was diverse, it was also boring. Kinds often kept to themselves and played by the rules. There were too many powers and agencies who policed them. Templars, The Round Table, human authorities, and any number of powerful Houses like the Sinclaires, or literal powers like Velorum who could bring brimstone down on a naughty supernatural who dared to threaten to expose their world too much. Griffin had brought plenty of fire down on himself during his life and he'd paid for his mistakes in blood and pain. Bummer for most of them he liked to hurt. Was much more familiar with it than anything else.
So the demon who'd been stalking him, that he'd met less than an hour ago, on his knees under the restaurant table was pretty much the start of not a horrible day for him and he just sipped his wine with an arrogant smile on his lips.
The tongue that slipped from between the demon’s lips was different. It was too dark in color, tapered to a fine and dextrous point. And it was definitely too long. The only similarity to the human tongue was the silver piercing still in it.
His hands cupped under the witch's ass, nails digging into his skin for purchase and shifting the angle of his hips to what he wanted. Once satisfied with his placement, Balakai nuzzled closer. Tongue curling around his clit, the tip probing under the hood of skin. The demon rumbled a low growl, perfectly pleased with the turn the day had taken.
He almost fought the demon just to be contrary, to make him work for it, but that seemed counter to his interests. He rolled a little under the sharpness of his nails but it was hot and he felt the heat of desire run up his spine. He'd had demons before. He thought he was plenty prepared.
He wasn't.
His moan of pleasure was pure pornography and his head fell back against the back of the booth. There was a little cluck of scandal from the other side and he laughed once he could breathe.
"Don't be a jealous bitch," he sighed, voice redolent with pleasure.
Whatever Balakai might have replied was muffled as he buried his face between Griffin's legs, sucking on his little cock hungrily. Despite the witch's warning, there was the occasional scrape of teeth but it was more warning- play, even- done with a certain mischief to it as his tongue worked him. The moan made him laugh, a throaty chuckle that reverberated a little as he squeezed Griffin's ass, kneading the flesh like a cat. He ignored the general clatter and sudden rise in discomfited voices.
His nails were little lances of pain that were electric to the heat of pleasure and Griffin was here for it.
"Thank fuck someone in this city can give a decent blow job," he muttered as he ran his free hand through Balakai's colorful hair, his own nails just a little sharp if perfectly manicured. He let his eyes slide closed and he set his wine glass down so that he could reach back and grip the back of the booth, hips moving under him because he couldn't not.
Balakai's eyes narrowed, crinkled up at the corners with some kind of humor though his mouth was rather too occupied to reply and he didn't seem inclined to stop. Nor did he bother to keep down the soft, wet sounds of their play. He shifted his angle a little, and there was a slight thump from under the table as he dropped from a crouch to his knees, properly settling in.
"Down payment for what you owe me for all that free porn you got stalking me," Griffin said with laughter in his voice despite that his words were halting. He didn't even play coy, he was enjoying this and the fact that he heard the crash of dishes only made him laugh. "I bet you fucked yourself good every time you watched, didn't you?"
He drew back just a little for a moment, sucked in a breath and gave Griffin a long lap.
"Fucked you once or twice while you were still warm." Then he sucked hard on Griffin's little cock and snaked his tongue into his cunt.
Griffin should have been horrified. The violation of it. The inhumanity and profanity. Instead he threw his head back and laughed, which really was more of a breathless moan than anything else. He was close before, already worked up from the man-handling when they'd first met, but when he felt his tongue slide into him fully he cried out. There was the sound of some angry voices, he was sure, but he didn't actually give a shit. This was good and fuck if he didn't intend to enjoy every second of it as his whole body shook with immediate climax. Balakai practically purred with delight as Griffin came, wallowing in the taste of him on his tongue and the spasm of his muscles.
Griffin just sank into the wildfire of it and it wasn't until someone actually tried to touch him that he even noticed the pair of cops standing there. He blinked, eyes too bright with the magic that he summoned to the surface of him in case it was needed.
"What? You want next? Gotta buy him lunch first, I think." He almost giggled with amusement and unsteadily reached for his wine.
Balakai only slipped away when he heard Griffin address someone else. Cat slitted eyes flicked to the cops and he sank into the shadows under the table which went black as pitch and looked almost solid, oily.
Twin tendrils of shadow slithered out from the dark, crept around the ankles of the cops as they reached for handcuffs or tasers or who knew what. They only had time for sharp, startled yelps and one scream as the tendrils tightened and yanked. They were dragged into the blackness under the table and for a moment there was only black shadow and the ember bright glow of orange-red eyes. Then Balakai scampered out from under the table with a cackle, grabbing Griffin's hand and dragging him out of the booth.
"Pull your pants up, let's go!" He gave him just a moment to drag his clothes into some semblance of order, then dragged the witch out of the shop at a run.
Griffin was pretty practiced at the 'scramble while pulling up your pants' move, having seduced more than his fair share of husbands whose wives got home early. He laughed as they ran, cheeks flush with color that had been dreadfully absent in the wake of his death.
"Did you just fucking eat them? Like, I like my version much better, so sucks to be them!" He laughed again full and light and didn't think about how easily his fingers laced with those of the wild little demon stalker who was proving to be the height of entertainment.
Griffin was plenty familiar with Shadow. He knew what had likely befallen the police called on them by the quaint and puritanical folk of the little eatery. The velvety oil slick texture of the magic slid against his skin and made him shiver, a thrill of wild fear that no human could really help when that abyssal magic was wielded with malice. He didn't look back as he was pulled along, one hand working to redo his belt even though he didn't much care. He was wholly amused and well satisfied and that had been unexpected fun.
"Eat them? Fuck no. Pigs taste disgusting. I have standards." Balakai slowed to a jog after they'd darted down a couple of different streets and gotten some distance from the little shop. He wasn't at all winded, riding high on the delight and wickedness. "I'd have had to toy with them a lot longer to make them remotely palatable."
"Okay, after that, I'm not even mad you fucked my corpse. Super deranged, for sure, but that was hilarious."
Balakai swung their linked hands and whistled cheerfully as they strolled down a street, looking around with curiosity. It wasn't hard to find what he wanted. He nudged Griffin into a narrow alley between two buildings and shoved him up against the rough brick, tugging his half done belt back open. "I mean, I didn't hear you making any complaints at the time."
"I was dead, you filthy deviant," he laughed, his earlier bad mood entirely dispelled by the wonton wickedness of the demon. Griffin was perpetually exhausted by the games people played. How they would play coy and lead on that they were down for something, only to get cold feet, or worse they played big when they had no intention at all. He despised wasted effort with no return. Balakai, for all that everything about this was horrifically problematic in every conceivable way, was actually wildly easy around whom to be.
He laughed as he shoved his hand into the witch's pants, fingers sliding into the wetness of him. "Gotta say I like you better alive enough to moan like that. You sound like such a slut."
Griffin’s breath caught and he didn't fight, hips rolling against the demon's hand. "Guilty as charged. I lived through Puritanism. It was bullshit."
"Your mouth good for anything but talking?" Balakai snarked as he played with the witch, pressed tight enough to him that he almost made it hard to move his hand. He straddled one of Griffin's thighs, grinding himself against it. His pants were tight and his arousal was positively painful, pressing awkwardly to one side and without really any room to move, not really abated by their sudden flight.
There was something impossibly exhilarating about casting aside the wholeness of propriety. He liked making people uncomfortable. Making them question why they were uncomfortable. The demon, however, had none of that. It was a delight.
"Absolutely." The single word was starting to become something of a mantra now.
He ran a play of fingers along the hardness of the demon, eyes glittering and sharp.
The demon rolled his hips against Griffin's hand with a little growl of pleasure, then shifted back enough that he wasn't pressing the taller man back into the brick wall. He reached up and slid a hand into the witch's auburn hair and shoved him down. "Bite and I'll break your jaw and remove all your teeth. It won't kill you."
Griffin shivered and out of sheer need to fight he almost didn't let the demon push him to his knees. He was strong enough, though no more than any other human without magic to augment him. Balakai, he was completely sure, could have made him do anything that the demon wanted him to do. Without the magic that was his birthright and strength, he was only human. He bled just as easily, got sick, and hurt. He felt the nails of the golden-eyed man's hand like little knives against his scalp and he let out a little cry because fuck did it hurt. And it felt good too. To be wanted and demanded and the little bit of helplessness because had the demon wanted, there wasn't really anything that the witch could have done to stop him.
So, he fell hard on his knees and looked up the other man's body with a glare that was fire and invitation. Griffin wasn't precious about his body. He did not feel shame. He did not debase himself unless it was his own will. He belonged only to himself and even Death himself had no command of him. What was a little pain? What was all of the pain?
He brought up his hands and slowly unbuttoned his pants, drew down the zipper all the while looking up at him. God, if he wasn't hungry for a proper cock down his throat. He brought out the demon's hardness and didn't hesitate for a single breath as he took him all the way in, well practiced how not to choke on him.
Balakai met the witch's odd eyes, grin widening at the flash of defiance, as if he read the thoughts running through Griffin's mind. He shoved a little harder than necessary to thrust the man down to his knees, rocking into his hands as he undid his fly and pulled him out. There was a little groan of relief when he was finally free of the tight confines of his pants- he wasn't wearing anything underneath them. He braced one forearm against the rough brick, his other still buried in Griffin's hair with his nails digging into his scalp.
"Fuck yeah, that's hot," he moaned encouragement as Griffin took him to the root. At first glance he didn't look terribly larger than the average cock. There was nothing in particular unusual about his anatomy. But he was heavy to the touch, and the skin moved a little as though it weren't quite connected right. As though there was the potential for it to be else. Sigils in deep green ink crawled down over his hip bones, trailing in sharp points down to the tops of his thighs.
He didn't try for politeness, hips jerking as he fucked into Griffin's throat, eager and so goddamn hard from their play. He turned his head a little to noisily suck Griffin's wetness from his fingers.
There was an art to it; to relaxing and letting oneself be used. It had taken Griffin a long time to get the hang of it, of not fighting. The human brain was wired for fight or flight and to make it cease and do neither took both determination and practice. He was possessed of both. Even so, it was hard to keep still and not fight at least a little as the demon pounded into him; no warm up, no mercy. One hand reached up to trace the lines of ink and magic on Balakai's hip, and a far away part of him wanted to see the rest of the spell because he was always curious about magic.
He made little helpless and pleased noises, hardly enough breath to do and he struggled as his head grew a little light. His jaw ached after a while and he could not help but reach down and touch himself, swirl his clit and find he was dripping. The witch felt the little flickers of not quite panic because the other man was rough and... different. That he could struggle meant it was good, but it could be better. His fingers curled into the demon's hip and he fought a little against the hand that held so tight a grip on his hair, holding him there to be fucked.
There was an ease with which Balakai ignored his struggles that spoke of the supernatural strength of him. And despite that he looked slight, and Griffin should have at least had the advantage of weight, he was utterly un-movable. As though he were denser and far heavier than he had any right to be. Nor did he string together more words, reduced to bass moans and low, growl-edged noises. He had no care for Griffin's comfort. The witch had gotten his, now it was only due for Balakai to have his spoils.
His other hand dropped to Griffin's head as he buried himself deep with a low, drawn out groan. He emptied himself down Griffin's throat without warning or askance. Fingers tangled in the auburn of his hair, pulled taut and nails scratching sharp across his scalp for lack of care until the demon was done and, panting, released him. He lifted clawed fingers to his lips and lapped the blood from his nails as if it were decadence, the whole of him slow and sinfully indulgent.
The human sprawled, gasping and coughing, all strength gone out of him. His throat and chest burned with the sulfur and hell of the demon and he learned something. This was Balakai's actual body. One stolen from a human or other would not have seared him like this, made him feel like he was drowning in tar and fire. He braced himself on his hands, shaking a little as his lungs began to trust that they would be permitted air. His head swam and he ached desperately.
And he knew full well that he was going to do that again.
He fell back a little and sat hard, resting his arms on his knees and shaking some sense into himself. He was still only newly alive again and his body was nowhere near recovered. He felt sick in a way that was unlikely to have anything to do with the demon. Queer eyes looked up at Balakai and he quirked a self-satisfied smile.
"Your real name, huh? And body. That's a neat trick. I didn't think that was possible." His voice was ragged and low, as if he'd smoked a whole pack of cigarettes at once. He didn't move to get up, not sure his legs would hold him. His ears were still ringing.
The demon’s smirk was equally self-satisfied as he gingerly stepped around the collapsed witch so he could prop a shoulder against the brick wall and just watch as Griffin tried to catch his breath. His burnished gold eyes had darkened to the orange-red of embers. Lazily, he tucked himself back into his pants. His grin grew positively cheshire at the sound of his voice.
"There is when a witch leaves a hell mouth open too long and you just... walk out." He made a little walking gesture with two fingers. After a moment, he hooked the toe of his boot into Griffin's ribs and gave him a little experimental shove to see if he was unstable enough to roll over. "I like blowing your mind. It's fun."
Griffin chuckled and tried to shove the boot away- a fruitless gesture because he was really in no shape to do much of anything.
"Quit being a bitch and help me up." He reached a hand out and actually had a certain amount of faith that the demon would not just leave him there.
People got it wrong most of the time. About demons. ‘Evil’ wasn’t quite so simple as people made it out to be. Most of them didn't have the power or attention span to really be a plague on humanity. It was a lot more work to rule people than to misdirect them. Most were just the negative voice in your ear. Or, in Griffin's case, the pathway to personal truth. To forsake the conventions that kept the powerful in power and serve himself as master and god. That laws were to keep those who needed them from being set adrift in the chaos of creation and meeting only ruin. They were freedom, most of them. There was still the chance demon that was a crazy murderer. Most were just wildly liberated. They fucked when they wanted to, and fought just the same. They defied anything that looked like a shackle or system of suppression.
Demons were defiance.
Few lives were made better for association with them and they manipulated in a masterful array of ways. The sad little pretty girl who made you throw away all of your ambition and every dream to make her happy again. The best lay of your life that you would sell your mother to satisfy. The pretty egomaniac that you would rip out your own heart to please. Vice they knew, self-doubt exploited, and weakness turned into damnation. Demons, these days, weren't really a problem for Griffin. His soul was already too black if he'd ever had one to begin with.
"Wanna come back to my place?" He looked up and raised an eyebrow.
The demon considered for a long moment, leaning against the wall as he watched Griffin. He only left him waiting for a minute before he leaned down and caught the witch under the elbow, hauling him to his feet. Neither gently nor inordinately roughly, just with brisk efficiency. He didn't let him go once the witch was upright but instead molded close to the side of his body, arm sliding around his waist and fingers just sliding into the front pocket of Griffin's slacks so he could grip his hip.
"Lead the way, doll," he purred the words low in his throat and squeezed just a little, pastel hair falling forward into his eyes, red lingering around the edge of the burnished gold iris. Balakai was not, and would never claim to be, good people. Not the way Relic Sinclaire tried to act like he'd risen above his roots. Above the purpose he was summoned for. Balakai had, for the most part, no desire to meddle in broader human politics. Politics were boring games. Individual people, now those were interesting.
He liked his life comfortable, not running fugitive from greater powers or being brought to bay and forced to fight. He was a seeker of pleasure. So he watched his behavior, walked the knife-edge of being too much trouble. But Griffin- well, Griffin Summerville didn't have any friends. He walked the blade of the same knife, held the same balance. What Balakai guessed had been confirmed by his long watchfulness and by the past short while.
He and Griffin were going to be a damn good time.
