No good ever comes from coming home- old flames come back to haunt Griffin, one as a nuisance and one as a job.  When Balakai recognizes Julian Rhodes, Griffin has to decide how far he's willing to push the demon for answers.

CW for murder, slurs, drug reference, alcohol, murder, rough sex, blood

Word count: 7709 

The walk back to the brownstone was slow. Griffin's throat was raw and his jaw and neck ached on top of how he'd felt before the rough face fucking, but he wasn't going to complain about it. Physical pain didn't bother him the way it seemed to bother other people. Maybe it had, a long time ago. He felt it just as keenly, and didn't like it unless he was looking for it, but it didn't trouble him too much. It would come and go. There were things that lasted, and some that didn't. The scars of his deaths- they remained. The pain of any other thing would fade and be replaced by another. He sat in pain and held it, felt all of it, because it was proof of a life that never ended. No matter how many times he tried, now mostly just for the novelty of it, he always woke.  

Though he never would have admitted it, he didn't hate the demon so close, the way he held him almost possessively. Griffin didn't keep close attachments. That didn't mean that he didn't sometimes long, just a little, for the warmth of someone present. Sometimes he even let someone stick around for a few weeks, months even. He never let them stay. It only ended a few ways and all of them were horrific. He didn't value people. Not really. Only what they could do for him, give him, evoke in him. Griffin had no pride, no price, and no modesty.  

Balakai wanted very little more for the moment than to bask in a soft bed and luxuriate inconveniently in Griffin's way until he decided he wanted something else from him. Catching up with him in Boston had taken far too long and far too much energy, though he didn't for one moment regret any of what had passed. Then the bit of shadowmancy at the diner had tapped resources of power he didn't often use. He'd have to practice more. He imagined Griffin would not be polite if he knew how rusty Balakai actually was in that particular practice. He'd save himself the ridicule until he changed his mind.

As they neared the building, Griffin spotted a bear of a man sitting on his front stoop.  Fine suit, and a flash of Rolex showing off his wealth like the diamonds on his fingers. Griffin groaned dramatically and dragged his hands down his face.  

"Fuck off, Nikki. I warned you not to try and find me again." Griffin's expression was hard and his voice had lost the moment of tired irritation. "I warned you."

Balakai was too busy rubbing his cheek against Griffin like a scent marking cat to pay much mind to where they were going until Griffin stopped. His eyes, barely slit open to watch where he was going, glowered at the tall, well-muscled man.

Nikolas Desoto looked like a man who broke other men with his thighs, and yet the look on his face was only adoration and anxiety.  

"I know, Griff, baby, but I couldn't... you know... get you out of my mind. Just once more, right? So I can forget? Like you did last time? You can do magic, right? I know you can." He simpered, a tone utterly at odds to the tall and broad of him, to the deep gravel of his voice as he begged.

Griffin just shook his head, a frown like a slash on his pale lips. "No, Nikki. You gotta go."

The other man's face twisted in agony. "Please, Griff?  Please?" 

The sound of his desperation twisted Griffin’s stomach.

"Fuck Grif, what'd you do to turn him into such a little bitch? Or did he come to you that way? You think he'd follow you home like a lost puppy just for the chance to get across the threshold? Here, doggy." Balakai patted the front of Griffin's thigh, just shy of his groin and whistled. His voice was sharp with irritation and mocking. "Here boy, crawl like a good little bitch."

"Nikki here doesn't go in for faggots," Griffin said with absolutely no warmth in his voice. He was very still, arms crossed over his chest and his expression unreadable. 

"Hey, I'm a faggot." Balakai put a hand on his chest in mock offense, his nails on the small of Griffin’s back pricking into his skin.  

"Sure liked the faery dust, though, and then he was sucking my dick like a proper bitch in heat. Still chasing the high, this one." Magical drugs and normal people didn't mix well, but he'd not cared at the time. He'd wanted the huge man broken and helpless on his knees. Wanted him to eat every filthy word that had come out of his mouth when he'd thought he was powerful.  "I like to break big men who get too big.  Bring them back to the shit pile with the rest of us."

Griffin tilted his head just a little to the side and looked at Balakai, frown turning into a cold smile. "Bet you could have his man pussy if you wanted. Nikki would do anything to make me happy, wouldn't you, baby?"

"God yes, Griffin. Please? Just, don't send me away again." He edged closer, as if he was aware that getting too close to the witch was dangerous but he couldn’t help but want to.

Balakai considered the prospect in front of him, then blew a raspberry and leaned on Griffin, looking up at him with wide-eyed, mock begging.  

"Oh Griff, baby," he mimicked the other man's term of endearment, "I just had a good fuck, I don't want to spoil the mood with a bad one. Send him on an errand or something and maybe when he comes back it'll be a good time. Unless you have an empty fridge, then we could just stuff him in it like leftovers until we have an appetite again." He giggled.

Griffin rolled his eyes. "Yeah, no. Nikki's people will find him and that's a pain in my ass that I don't enjoy."  

He squinted at the large man, considering. While it would have, in some ways, made his life a lot easier to just kill the man, he was human and there were rules about that even he couldn’t casually ignore without consequences with which he didn’t want to deal. There was also the fact that he didn’t often waste possible tools, even if they were annoying. 
Mostly, he still somewhat enjoyed tormenting the other man, ruining his life, bit by poisoned bit, as his want made him destroy his own life slowly. "There are some covens meeting in Europe, people who don’t like me. I want you to keep an eye on that, on them. Until I say otherwise. You’re going to report to me if anyone sounds like they intend to move on me. They’re meeting in France, Nice. And I don't care if any of them hurt you, so I won't come to find you. Don’t get caught."

The huge man blinked. "And then?"  

“You don’t make demands of me, Nikki. Get going. Fetch." And he leaned down to kiss Balakai in a lingering almost sweet kind of way, as much to drive his point home as because he wanted to. Balakai molded against the front of his body, leaning up to wrap both arms around the taller man's neck. When Griffin would have pulled away, he held him a moment longer, but didn't push more than that.

Nikki made a pained little noise that should not have come from a man that big, but he turned to go and Griffin laughed as he led them up the stairs of the neat brownstone and he traced a pattern over the door before he turned the knob to let them into the large, open entry.

Balakai kicked the door closed behind them and slid up behind Griffin, putting both arms around his waist and working his fly open. "Why didn't you just get rid of him if he's such a nuisance?  Lace fairy dust with a little something, let him OD. Someone can find his body in a pool of his own filth and bam, no one the wiser."

Griffin writhed in his surprisingly strong grasp and slapped the demon's hands.

"Insatiable. I don't know if you remember, but I was dead like three hours ago. If you fuck me to death it's gonna be a super huge pain in the ass. Nikki has people. While he may be enthralled, they are not and I’m not overly interested in pissing off an entire crime syndicate today. Might be fun later, though." His droll tone did not have the weight it should have given the subject matter.

Balakai chuckled and let himself be swatted away after he unbuttoned Grif's pants, giving him a playful swat on the ass. The demon moved past him and peeled the t-shirt he was wearing up over his head as he walked. Stretching and letting the piece of clothing fall to the ground of the foyer. He headed towards the stairs.

"Bedroom upstairs I'm guessing?" The green ink covered him from shoulders down. Splitting at his lower back to curl forward over his hips, leaving a patch of fair skin just above the back waistband of his pants bare.

For a moment, the witch watched him go, queer eyes intent on the ink that was more than ink on his skin. He was plenty familiar with spell tattoos, not that he'd ever let anyone touch his own skin. He had no interest in something that permanent, as much because his tastes changed as because he didn't trust anyone. At all.  

Maybe, most ironic of all, he trusted Velorum. Death's Avatar was an oddly sincere and sweet, if painfully socially awkward, sort who, for whatever reason that Griffin could not fathom in the least, seemed determined to see him redeemed. A desire that Griff himself did not share. He had made some very deliberate decisions in his immortal youth and did not regret them. He'd bathed in wickedness and vengeance and rebellion. Everything that the world had tried to demand of him he had lit on fire and laughed as it burned.  

Now, his life was relatively empty, but it was fun and it was his. He didn't need, or want, to be some great power in the world. He wanted no kingdoms or courts. He didn't need servants or worshipers. He was powerful because he had carved up his soul for it, because he had done things so black that there was no going back. And he wasn't sorry. He'd betrayed almost any association he'd ever had, or simply didn't fit into civilized society because he had no desire what-so-ever to mold to their rules. He liked watching the world burn far too much.   

Sometimes, very rarely, something or someone would come along that would pull him out of the black. There were these almost sweet interludes where the sun would come out and he'd breathe for the first time in forever. They were oddly precious, for all he knew they wouldn’t last. 

Griffin shook his head and headed into the kitchen, letting Balakai figure it out on his own. He opened the drawer in which he'd tossed the folder that Noah Sinclaire had given him. Inside was a picture of Julian clipped to the corner of a bunch of police reports and gruesome crime scene photos. Julian, with his long blonde hair and piercing dark eyes. He could look straight through him and god Griffin had ached for him for a long time after the mother fucker had murdered him. Julian hadn't known that particular trick about him. For all Griffin knew, he still believed him dead. 

"Why you? Why couldn't it have been literally anyone else on the face of the earth?" 

Julian hadn't just murdered him. He'd used him in a spell and the arcane glyphs were still indelibly marked on the pale skin of his back. The reminder hurt. Still. It had been seven years and it still hurt. The fact that it did pissed him off. He prided himself on not giving a shit, on caring about nothing and no one but himself. Julian had utterly blindsided him. He’d been too much like a bittersweet ghost from the past. He'd been warm and bright and addictive as sunshine. He'd been sugar before the absinthe, the warmth of the fire before it burned. Then it had all gone straight to hell.  

He gave a full body shiver and knew part of this destructive bender of his was because he was trying to chase even the memory of the blonde from his skin. It never worked, but that never stopped him from trying. Especially now, so close to the anniversary of his first death.

Griffin sighed and closed the folder, sliding it back into the drawer. He’d already set in motion the dominos that would bring Julian to him. That would end this. It would just take a little time and a lot of patience, but Griffin had both.

 He followed after the demon, ignoring the clothes he’d left scattered in his wake. He could hear the shower running and so he just pitched himself into the huge, heather gray bed and felt the exhaustion that always followed coming back from death pull him under.

Balakai basked in the hot steam, water cranked over as far to hot as it would go until his skin was red with the heat. Without the clothing to soften it, his muscle was sharply defined and unnatural, the relief too stark and not everything as it should be on a human body. Despite his stature, it meant he looked far more dangerous nude than dressed.  

When he'd finally poached himself sufficiently, he stole the clearly used towel off the hook and briskly dried off, padding barefoot towards the bedroom. His steps without the heavy boots were quiet and he paused in the doorway between bathroom and bedroom to study the sprawl of Griffin in it. He made a little noise of disgust and pitched the towel into the corner, walking to the bed and tugging the witch's shoes off. He crawled his way onto the bed and up the witch's body, moving cat-quiet as he peeled him out of his clothing. He didn't have to move Griffin much, just slit the cloth with nails gone sharp and worked it out from beneath him, tossing it off the edge of the bed. Griffin hardly moved, for all the world as dead as he’d been earlier. Except now he was warm.

Satisfied, he sprawled practically on top of the witch, face tucked into his auburn hair.  Breathing in the strange, faint scent of herbs and ozone that lay close to Griffin’s skin.

Griffin’s dreams were always lovely. There was always that soft velvet of memory that reached back to before everything had gone so horribly wrong. Even before he had cast off his skirts, he had enjoyed learning at his mother's knee, and at that of her mother. The line of witches that stretched back to the earliest reckoning. Magic ran in the blood of their folk, a kinship with moon and earth and wild and wyrd. They'd settled in Salem, despite the religious fervency of the settlers there, because it was beautiful and like home had been. The community there had needed them and there was the hope that they might escape some of the hunting that was pervasive in the old world.  

Everyone knew. The Summervilles were a public secret. When a woman missed her moon after a foray with a lover, the Summervilles gave service. Or a man who could not perform. Sometimes it was to spare a fevered child, or to give council on the best crops to be planted in a given field. They had been known well enough back in England, but this small wood magic they liked best. It cost what they were willing to pay. Many of their people had spent themselves to death at the cost of major magics, their name too known and some claimants too powerful to refuse. The new world made for a quiet life, if a hard one, and they'd been happy.

The contentment of dreaming lingered, haunting him. Of his mother's fingers braiding his long hair and teaching him songs as she wove flowers into it. Of the voices of the witch-born dancing unclad under the wild moon. Whole and home and safe.  

It made waking horribly bitter.

Griffin made a strangled sound as he woke to heavy weight and heat, not quite sure where he was at first. Trapped. He summoned magic in his left hand, the air pressure increasing as before a storm, eyes glowing oddly as it coursed through him.

Balakai, however, slept deeply and well. If his dreams were troubled, it didn't show in the stillness of him. He stayed curled close, as if even in sleep he resented any lapse in contact between their skin. Even the stir of magic didn’t wake him. He made a low, growling whine sound and wrinkled his nose in his sleep, nudging closer. His limbs twitched a little, and he heaved a deep sigh as he resettled himself against Griffin.

The magic faded from the witch's eyes at the sound of the growl; it anchored him to the here and now. He didn’t normally wake beside people. He had no interest in their softness, in their need and desire for connection. He had none to give. Griffin took. He consumed all that life had to offer and he was jealous of everything and everyone. Especially himself.  

There was something about the weight, more than the slightness of the demon gave credit, that made him just sigh though. He didn't trust himself any more than he trusted anyone else. If it was bad for him, he would chase it. Demons were the worst kind of bad decision. Which explained why he didn't just shove Balakai off of him. 

Unwise.

For now, and maybe only because he was still feeling like shit from killing himself again, he just settled and traced an absent hand down the demon's back, gaze unfocused at the ceiling. It wasn't lost on him that he was naked, though he wasn't sore so he assumed that Balakai had at least had the grace not to fuck him in his sleep. He was pretty sure he'd have woken up, but not entirely. He'd sleep hard for a few more days.

It was some while yet before Balakai woke, heralded first by a slight restlessness. Resettling himself against Griffin, half-hard against his hip. Nuzzling lazily into his hair and skin. Then he licked a hot, wet line from shoulder to neck, ending with a playful nip at his earlobe and a low growl that reverberated deep in his chest. His eyes slit open, burnished gold reflecting like cat-eyes in the dimness of the room. He held on to the tender bit of skin caught between his teeth. His growls rose and fell with the cycling of his breath, and the arm that had been draped over Griffin's body tightened to keep him from getting away.

Griffin made a disgusted noise and started to move away, but the sharp teeth on his earlobe and arms around him stilled him. 

"What are you, a dog?" He fussed, though there was no real irritation in his voice. He'd regained just a little of his color and even if the dark circles under his eyes remained, they were not so dark a purple as they had been before. He ran nails a little sharp up the demon's back, not enough to draw blood this time, but more than polite to be sure.

Balakai arched under the press of nails with a delighted moan. He rolled them, shoving Griffin down into the mattress and wedging a knee down between his thighs. The still faintly sleepy grin that flashed across his impish face was positively feral. And this time the impression of sharp teeth was not a fleeting glimpse but rather lingered as he leaned close and breathed in Griffin's scent.

"Close enough."

The witch felt his heart race, real fear that came from the part of his brain that knew that this man could easily, and without a second thought, do him mighty harm. He felt the cold flood of adrenaline at the image and he had to fight to keep his breath even though his eyes went wide.   For all of his power, he was still only human.  

"That's hot," he said, voice low. It was madness, to have his control stripped from him, to be left vulnerable and helpless. He loved it.

Balakai could hear the speeding of the witch’s heart and he chuckled, a little sinister, delighted sound as he bodily forced Griffin's legs apart, frotting his cock against Griffin's clit in little, lazy thrusts. "Good, since I'm going to breed you like a bitch before breakfast."

Griffin laughed brightly, expression highly entertained despite the lunacy of this. He arched against him. He had never been a Puritan even when they had been all the rage. "Oh are you?  And if I object?"
"Do I look like I care what you want?" Balakai raised a brow, and his shoulders moved under Grif's hands with more muscle than they had any right to. He braced one hand on Griffin's sternum, leaning his weight to keep him pinned to the bed. His other hand slid up and tangled his fingers into the man's auburn hair.
He set his hands on Balakai's shoulders, nails biting in. It wouldn't be any fun if he just rolled over and let him have it. 

"The alliteration is sexy, though." His breath caught as the demon teased him. Griffin was a creature of boundless want and hunger. One of the prices of who he had become. One he was happy to pay. 
"Come, boy. That's a good dog." And he bit at the demon’s jaw, hard. 

Balakai didn't try to keep the witch from biting him. He just drew his hips back and thrust himself deep.

There was no delicacy as he rutted. He tightened his grip in Grif's hair and dragged his head back, pulling him off his jaw. He shoved his nose under the taller man's chin, teeth set to either side of his throat as he snarled, the pitch of it rising as sharp points of teeth broke the delicate skin. His tongue lapped at the broken skin, tasting the blood that wept from the wounds. Griffin cried out, a kind of choked and gurgling sound that never quite resolved into anything comprehensible. He writhed in rebellion, the nature of him unable to settle quietly. His nails sank into the demon’s shoulders, drawing his own price of blood that was hot and slick under his fingertips.

There was something... off about the feel of Balakai inside of him, more than just the hellfire of him. Griffin made an agonized noise at the bruising force with which the demon fucked him and he was pretty sure he could taste the tip of his cock at the back of his throat. It was agony, as if Balakai were trying to batter through him and he could not help the tears that sprang to his eyes. It was also ecstasy, his whole body wracked with the lightning of fight and desire and demand. He was not one who forewent any vice or passion and he supposed the demon had been waiting years for this.  

"Not too much blood!" he strained to remind him, head already growing light and voice breathy and cracked. His chest ached from the struggle to breathe beneath the demon’s weight and he whimpered with the demon's teeth around his throat, pulled taut to his desire.

Balakai almost bit down. Out of sheer pique. He could taste the blood spilled on his tongue. Could imagine the feeling of his teeth sliding sharp; deeper into flesh and muscle, crushing the throat and the hard shake of his head that would snap the spine. It made him salivate, dripping onto Griffin's skin as the muscle of him tightened for a moment in anticipation.  

Then his jaw relaxed a little and he let go his hold, lifting his head and drawing in a lungful of air. His eyes had gone the deep orangey red of embers, blood and saliva painted slick on his lips and chin. His own blood seeped from under Grif's nails and he reveled in the sharpness of it. There was no extent of damage he could do that would disturb the spell tattoos short of killing him, and so he simply arched to slightly change the angle of his thrust and to push his shoulders into the nails in his skin.

There would be other times to kill him. Not now. Now he wanted Griffin hot and writhing under him. He ducked his head low and licked the blood still leaking from the wounds in his neck. Then lower, back rounding to let him chase the taste of Griffin's skin down his chest.

It hurt so good, the relentless pounding of the demon into him. There was a bone deep ache building that said he was going to feel this for some days to come. He didn't heal any faster or better than anyone else and he certainly couldn't perform any kind of healing magic that wasn't basic alchemy. His mother had been very good at the art, but even had he the patience for it, he didn't possess the giving spirit required. Griffin was selfish and hedonistic. He'd traded away any kindness or soul he might ever have had. Now he just swam in near delirium under the teeth of Balakai above him.

His heart raced, the pattern of it unsteady and labored and his whole body jerked, helpless under the force of the ember eyed demon rutting into him, but unholy night if it wasn't everything for which he hungered. He twisted under him, trying to move with him when he could but really it was fruitless. In this, there was little he could contribute save the hole of him and his broken voice. For a moment in the queer shadows of the room, he though he saw an echo of an image overlaid the demon, like a great black wolf.  

Usually, Griffin had to go seeking this kind of release, but here Balakai had found him. As his tongue ran hot along his chest, Griffin broke in shattering orgasm, all fight gone out of him as he relented under the force of it.

Hands ran hungry over Griffin's skin, leaving the witch more free to move- if he could.  Balakai’s palms were rough, callused. The scent of him was heady to the demon's nose, mixed with his own sulfur and sex. The way his body jerked and his breathing labored drove a low and eager whine from Balakai's throat as he worried the skin here and there, nipping the peak of the witch's nipple. There was a subtle shimmer to the ink of him, almost a luminescence as it glowed against his skin. It slithered slowly, like lazy snakes, forming new patterns and disrupting the old, shaping around the raking lines that Griffin’s nails had left.

Even as Griffin's muscles squeezed tight around him, Balakai's thrusts became short and a little slower. The base of him swelled, subtle at first but it made it harder to drag himself out, and then yet harder to drive in. Finally his thrusts turned to deep grinds, when the pull of trying to draw out was too painful and he was too damn close. His orgasm was a slow, shuddering thing that washed down his spine and lasted for long, breathless minutes.

Griffin practically howled, the size and pressure of the demon sure to break him in half. He swelled and it stretched him further than he thought he could accommodate and so he arched against him in wrecked pleasure. His vision went a little gray as he felt his insides plastered by the demon and he was sure he'd be coughing that up for weeks. He panted beneath him, head still fallen back and nerves afire. He remained in the fuzzy bliss of post, just trying to breathe and keep from losing consciousness. He wasn't, after all, in the kind of shape to be doing vigorous activity.

Not that it ever stopped him.

With a long sigh, he finally went limp, arms falling back above his head.  Balakai was a limp, heavy weight sprawled on top of the witch, eyes closed and breath panting softly from parted lips as it slowly returned to normal.  Lazily, the tip of his tongue flicked out to lick at the traces of blood still leaking sluggishly from Griffin's neck.

"You're a nice fuck, stalker. Glad I was alive for it this time."

"I know," he grunted, voice laden with self-satisfaction. "You're a better lay alive. I like the way you wiggle." The last word dropped into a deeper bass register, a low rumble in his chest.

Griffin rolled his eyes and tried to shove the heavy man off of him. "That was fun.” He slit his eyes open. “Now, get out." Griffin's voice didn't hold any rancor or annoyance, just his casual tones. His neck hurt and he needed another shower. He was exhausted and there was no world in which he wanted to worry about the demon sneaking up and snapping his neck just to see what would happen. There were detriments to being interesting to such as he.  

The demon's laugh was low and throaty. "Yeah, not yet mate. Gimme like... twenty minutes." He groped idly for the bedding, tugging at it until he realized they were stuck under Griffin. He made a little sullen noise of discontent against his neck. He nodded against the witch's shoulder, in a motion that almost could have been construed as dangerously close to a snuggle.

"I know that demons are strange... but did you fucking knot me?" Griffin’s voice hit a note somewhere between annoyed and incredulous. He'd fucked werewolves before, and his share of shifters too, so he wasn't unfamiliar with the sensation, he just hadn't suspected it from a demon of all things.

"Mhmmm. Don't always, but you're hot and it makes it better." Balaki licked again at the drying blood, though this time it was less tasting and more a motion like grooming. Habit rather than a deliberate attempt to be creepy or sexual.

Griffin had a soft spot for an accent and the demon's was more pronounced now than it had been at first. It reminded him just a little of his childhood, the way it always did when he was in the UK. His folk had been fresh off the boat and even though he had been at his mother's hip when they'd come over, he still hated sailing. He remembered it as a whole lot of puking and misery. Fever, stinking bodies, and fear. In the end, they'd made it to Boston town and thence to Salem. He'd first met Christian on that passage, the Magistrate's son, pale like spun gold and frail. But when he'd smiled... god be damned it was like the sun coming out after a storm.  

Sometimes he still dreamed of him. Pleasant as all his cruel dreams were.  

He sighed, because he didn’t actually have the strength to back up his demand anyway. "Flattery will get you everywhere, mutt," he said sleepily, reaching over for the gray throw to pull over them when the demon failed to pull the blankets from under him. The witch sighed softly, the glow of good sex stilling the normally dark reel of his thoughts. He did not fight it when sleep gently pulled him under again.  

Balakai dozed on and off, basking in post-coital bliss. Maybe half an hour later he levered himself up with a grunt. He rocked back on his heels, studying the witch where he lay sleeping. He tossed the grey throw back over him in a sort of haphazard manner, then went and rifled Griffin's clothes for his keys- until he recalled that the witch had let himself in with a spell. Muttering a curse under his breath, he dragged on pants and leisurely wandered the house, unlatching every window he came across and cracking them open. Once that was settled, he pulled his shirt over his head and let himself out the front door.

He didn't come back until late, with a ragged backpack held together with safety pins and patches. The tinny faint echoes of music came from a pair of headphones around his neck and he carried a grocery bag over one arm. He didn't bother to knock. In fact he didn't even try the front door. He hopped through one of the windows he'd opened and into the kitchen, unloading the beer and energy drinks from his grocery bag into the fridge.

Griffin's voice sounded rough as he wandered into the kitchen with naught but a large white towel around his waist, dark hair still wet. "You opened the windows, didn't you? Knew I should have spelled those too, from more than the outside."  

He huffed an annoyed sigh and proceeded to the pantry, returning with a box of breakfast cereal even though it was drawing closer to midnight than morning. The multitude of scars that marked his skin were unhidden thus, the tapestry of all of the ways that he had died by external means. He'd been poisoned, drowned, and asphyxiated, but those did not leave such marks. He hadn’t bothered to dress the bite marks on his throat, newly scabbed over.

Balakai turned to him and for a long moment didn't respond. Instead his eyes fixed on the marks on Griff's throat, lips curling in an extraordinarily pleased smirk. He lingered on the scars, because he'd not really taken the time to appreciate him aesthetically the night before. Not that he didn't know the shape of him well from the time he'd spent watching. When he’d finally looked his fill, the demon offered him a beer, the bottle turned so the label showed. It was a local craft brew called ‘Witchcraft’.

"Yup. But then you'd miss me." He popped the cap off the beer with his teeth, and offered it again.

"Would I?" Griffin asked with a raised eyebrow and no humor. At the sight of the beer label, his lips curled reluctantly. "That's Helen's company." 

The witch accepted the beer and dumped it into his cereal, setting the bottle down and spooning it into his mouth without a moment of hesitation. 

"What's your plan?" He asked without looking up. "I can't exactly make you fuck off, can I? You my bitch now?" He still sounded tired and his dark brows furrowed, mind clearly on other things.

"Sure can't." Balakai reached over and grabbed the box of cereal. He hopped up to perch on the counter, the heels of his boots thumping against the cabinets, the tongues flapping free of the laces. He spoke with his mouth full. "Your bitch?" He snorted derisively and washed the cereal down with a swig of beer. "You're going to have to work a whole ass lot harder for that. No, I figure you're my cunt until I get tired of you."

"Tired of me?" Griffin made a rude snort and finished the cereal with a grimace. "Who's been stalking whom? I thought I was your personal Truman Show." 

Balakai just shrugged.

Griffin looked up and squinted at the demon, trying to recall the shape of the spell on him. He knew a binding when he saw one, but Balakai's was strange. He'd felt the shape of it with his fingers while the demon had slept and while not a proper summoner or arcanist, he wasn't unfamiliar with how they worked. Griffin's own traditions were much more elemental and once upon a time he'd earned a name few now recalled. For a brief moment, he considered doing himself the harm of using his limited energy to try and banish Balakai just to see if he could, but shook his head and just went back to his cereal.  

"Who the fuck is Helen?" Balakai finally asked as he finished his beer, looking down at it with mild surprise. “It’s not bad."

"Chaos Witch. Bunch of misfits. Good beer, though. They grow some herbs that are hard to get elsewhere." While he hated to admit it, he actually owed them pretty big. Not exactly friends, but he trusted them to be themselves, he supposed. 
"Must be either a saint or a devil if they put up with you, since we seem to be the only people who are willing to."

The witch rose a little gingerly, aching and sore from the railing he'd taken earlier, but not unhappy about it. He was more settled now, focused. He rinsed his bowl and spoon and put them in the half full dishwasher and pushed the demon's legs aside so he could access the drawer with the file in it, the furrow in his brow turning into a genuine frown. He collected the folder and sat back at the kitchen table to look it over for real this time, to gather what he'd need to know if he was going to hunt Julian. He wasn't particularly interested in losing his head again.
There were the beginnings of an idea in his mind, threads and mists to follow and resolve if Julian was anything like he’d been when Griffin had last seen him. It would likely be a delicate thing that required a lot of one thing looking like another, but if he watched with care and anticipated, he might be able to make out with more than just the Sinclaire’s money. It would be smartest and easiest to simply kill Julian and be done with it. It might also be wasteful and Griffin wasn’t in the habit of wasting someone else’s wickedness.

Balakai flashed a grin, and for a moment resisted when Griffin tried to push his legs out of the way, but in the end opened his knees so the witch could access the drawer. He leaned forward to sniff along his skin while he was close, giving a little discontent growl because he just smelled like shower. Balakai would have prefered if his own scent still lingered. He slid off the counter and padded after him to the kitchen table, leaning down and draping his arms over Griffin's shoulders. He tapped the butt of his second beer lightly against Griffin's chest as the demon propped his chin on his shoulder and peered at the file.

"We? Is that demons or necrophiliacs?" If the demon was trying to be annoying, the closeness and familiarity with which he entered Griffin's space didn't bother him. The witch wasn't exactly precious about his body or person in anything he did and he wasn't troubled by people. He had moved through the world over a lot of years and conditions. He valued little and so there wasn't a whole hell of a lot to risk. And if he died, and stayed that way... well he wouldn't be alive to give a shit.  

"That venn diagram is a circle." Balakai drew a little circle in the air with the butt of his beer bottle. He rubbed his cheek against the witch's damp auburn hair. "Who's the mug?"
The witch turned his attention back to the file, picking up the photograph of Julian. It looked more recent than when last Griffin had seen him. As always, he looked good. Griffin leaned into Balakai, hedonistically enjoying the weight and warmth of him there. 

"Murderous ex girlfriend." He tilted his head so that the many scars on his neck were more visible. "Cut my head clean off. Asshole. Not before he murdered me by using me as a spell component for my own spell. So rude."

The demon’s head tilted a little when Griffin indicated the scars, shifting to study them. He lifted a hand to trace the marks, following them around to where they crossed and intersected. It was a little hard to follow any one. He recognized the marks of rope and knife. Throat slit more than once, hung or choked with rope. Garrote, maybe.  

The sharpness of his nails continued to drag along the scars as he turned his attention back to the papers. He considered for a moment, then tilted his head and squinted. 

"Huh. He's cut his hair since that photo, unless he has a twin. Pretty sure he was at the convenience store when I was getting beer." He lifted the bottle to his lips and gave a little shrug. "I only noticed because he stepped over me yesterday when I was chilling across the street. He might be staying in that townhouse."

Griffin went very still and then calmly set down the photograph. The room seemed to grow heavy, however, as if the very air was readying for a storm. For a few heartbeats he said nothing and then he was in motion, grabbing his empty beer bottle and shattering it on the edge of the table before he overturned his chair as he turned and slammed Balakai into the wall behind him with his forearm braced on the demon's chest and the broken end of the bottle shoved up under his chin. His expression was mayhem and his eyes almost flickered with ill contained power.  

"If you are fucking with me, or working with him, I will end you." His breath came ragged and with the damage to his throat his voice was cracked and broken. Though it hadn't been forecast to rain, there was the sound of thunder overhead.

Balakai hit the wall hard as Grif slammed him back into it. He didn't fight it, but the burnished gold of his eyes reflected the light cat-like. His hands found the witch's hips, nails pricking into the skin before he tugged the towel loose from his waist.

"You're fucking cute when you're mad." He hooked his leg around Grif's and jerked to off-balance him, throwing his weight forward. Nevermind the glass that bit into his jaw and throat, the heat of blood that suddenly drenched down the bottle and onto the witch's hand. It wasn't like he was that easy to kill. 

He did not much like being threatened, regardless of the weight of magic suddenly thick in the air.

The smell of sulfur was near choking as the demon's blood covered Griffin’s skin and being no stronger than any normal human, Griffin was carried backward by Balakai's lunge, narrowly avoiding cracking his skull on the hard edge of the solid oak table. He landed hard on his back to find the demon above him and once again the image of a huge wolf flickered across his vision. He tossed aside the bottle, hand too slippery with blood to wield it properly anyway, and made a quick symbol on Balakai's chest with it. Not a binding, but simply pain.

"I'm not mad yet." The pressure in the room seemed to continue to increase, ears screaming with it as the windows lit with a flash of very near lightning. "Do not fuck with me, Balakai. Not about my work." His plans were too delicate, too easily thrown into disarray for him to allow anything to tamper with them, no matter how good a fuck the demon was.

Honestly, he should have known better than to bleed gratuitously on a witch. Especially one as capable as Griffin. He'd had a long time to learn a lot of tricks and Balakai felt the spell dig hooks into him, sending lightning along his nerves. His fingers shortened, thickened, and the palms turned rough against Griffin's skin. He screamed, half agony and half fury and partway through the sound warped to a bone rattling snarl.  

Suddenly the weight in the air and the sharp scent of storm eased and Griffin gave a low moan of discomfort. He'd been straining against the demon but stopped, going almost limp beneath him. He didn't pass out, but closed his eyes and his color was not good. 

"Fuck."The single word was sullen.

Even as Griffin went limp, the demon scrambled back on all fours. Losing the cohesiveness of his shape. The smell of sulfur and ozone overpowered any other smell. Clothing shredded and left in the place of the small man was a densely muscled, loosely canine demon. Too broad-muzzled and heavy for a wolf, but not really like any dog that walked earth, over four feet at the shoulder. His eyes were the deep red-orange of embers, and the rune still smoked on his chest, glowing the white-blue of phosphorus  His claws dug into the floor, pulling up splinters.

With not one shred of any sense of self preservation, Griffin kind of made a snorting laugh that was cut short by a wince. 

"Oh. So you are my bitch then," he said, slowly drawing the back of his hand against his lips, leaving a smear of his own blood behind scarlet and bright against the pale of his skin. He watched the hell hound with slit eyes.  

As Griffin, and so the spell, lost his strength, Balakai gave himself a shake like a dog shedding water. He glowered at Griffin, eyes still showing the flash of human intelligence, no different than they were in his human shape except that they skewed more towards red than gold. Muscles bunched under skin drawn tight, almost gratuitous in their definition and not softened by the very short, thin coat of velvet black fur.

He lunged forward, faster than his bulk suggested, jaws snapping down on Griffin's shoulder and neck. A snap of his head shook the witch hard, fangs shredding skin until he had the satisfaction of the snap of his spine. Then, meticulously, he pinned the body with one heavy paw and began to dismember it. Starting with the head.