Demons? Sounds scary~

{ ☢ }    Lewis seems to miss Paxton’s first sentiment, nodding clumsily as he attempts to get up. The first try is an abject failure and he lands back on the seat. The second is a little smoother and, aside from an intense lean to the left and then the right, finds his equilibrium again. He wanders in an aimless zig-zag into his kitchen, heading towards his fridge.  

   Something clatters audibly when he begins to rummage around, a glass bottle by the sounds of it as he searches for one of the three or four cans of coke he has lying around.

   He returns on the same meandering, non-linear path, catching himself on a table as he passes it before dropping back into his seat. His left hand has a can of coke, the right the same nearly empty vodka bottle he’d been drinking from for the last two hours or so. He holds out the can to Paxton. “Here.” Paxton’s words take a moment to seep in, having to pierce the foggy haze of alcohol. 

   “None taken.” He tries for a smile, crooked and tired. “Was a stupid question anyway. I hated who I was then, too.” He shrugs himself, mirroring Paxton’s gesture. “Would you believe me if I told you that this was the, uh… Second attempt?” He gestured towards himself, a hint of disgust having seeped into his expression.

   It’s replaced by confusion as he tries to remember the stranger’s name. “Sorry, I, uh, asked you in and didn’t get your name. I’m Ch-uh, no. Nope. Lewis. I’m Lewis.” He sets the bottle on the table and unscrews the cap. 

    Welp... Receiving the coke effectively derailed Paxton’s somewhat muddled considerations of blatant messy murder. Good hospitality and obligations had been skillfully drilled into his brain for eons. The Fallen teachers (assholes) hadn’t really meant for it to count for humans. But fuck them, they had all the racism of Hitler and Donald combined and the imagination of a half-dead pigeon.  

  Besides this guy was... Well you wouldn't go into a pet store and just start eating the three legged kitten would you? 

  The crack of the coke can was like a shot, the small things were the most grounding. No, he’d play nice. Drink the fizzy and enjoy a nice conversation about the unbridled uselessness of life. 

“Definetly baked goods but doubtful about the murder. We normally like to throw the wrath around ourselves. 

{ ☢ }    He held his head in his hands, the points of his elbows digging painfully into his knees. Like branches in the wind he swayed. It felt like the room was tipping and jostling him from side to side, left to right and back again. 

   “I jus- d- Just don’t-” He closed his eyes, hoping to stave off the vertigo. It didn’t work. “I don’t know what happ’ned I was… better. I used to be more than, uh-” He grimaced, feeling his stomach turn. “This. I was better, like?” 

   His leg began to bounce, the way it always did when he got nervous. The way it always had, albeit clumsy and slow from vodka and the two sleeping pills he’d found in his medicine cabinet and anything, anything he could get his hands on. “I, uh, I don’know what to do, like? How do I go back? How do I get that not-piece-of-shit back?” 

   But even as he slurred and searched for some kind of comfort or advice, he knew deep down that he’d never been anything but rotten and ruined. How else could he have gotten here, drunk and airing his dirty laundry like some kind of unbalanced, weak, piece of shit victim? 

   “I’m so-” He swallowed. “I’m sorry, I’m just uh- I don’know what to do.” He repeated. “I hate myself so much.” He let his words settle in his lap. “Can I, uh, get you? Something? I have some soda in the kitchen.” 

  “Um... Honestly? It’d probably be better if I got you something. Heh But yeah, sure get me a soda if you’d like.” 

  Hands were clasped behind his back in a lazy grip, an equally lax smile gracing his lips. Completely at odds with what the demon was actually feeling- a horrible gnawing ache in his stomach and an uncommonly strong urge to rip something apart with his teeth. Plus a little bit of confusion. Why exactly was he here and talking to... This guy? Chalk it up lowered inhibitions. 

@soulbranded

Knocks on her door were always suspicious. For one thing, she lived in the literal middle of nowhere, and not many people knew how to find her cabin. For another, they usually brought bad news. So who could blame Rachel for picking up her gun and tapping a line. The taste of pine and snow and earth rolled over her, her body on fire with the power, and she peeked through the eyehole.

And almost dropped her gun.

The power flared in her with the rise in emotion, and she jerked the door open, half paranoid and half dumbstruck.

“P!” she exclaimed, looking him up and down like she couldn’t quite believe her eyes. Instinctively, she reached out a hand to touch him, but her paranoia stopped her. It’d been years, and she’d seen dopplegangers before. Instead, she opened her second sight.

There was no doubt. She’d seen his true form before, and it was burned into her memory. The aura, the flames, the blackened soul, all of it was the same.

She jumped on him in a full-body hug, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. “Where the hell have you been?”

 Her hesitation hurt a bit, the aborted move to touch him making raw emotion flare in his belly uncomfortably. But he wasn’t angry, no that particular emotion had never truly been for his witch. Least of all from him. 

 He couldn’t blame her if she’d decided to shut the door right in his face really. 

 Her power swirled around them, natural and electric. Paxton savored the familiar and heavily missed sensation. Why had he thought it a good idea to just... leave? 

 “Rachel... Hey-” Any excuse or half joking explanation was cut off abruptly as she launched herself at him, thin but muscular body practically wrapping itself around his body. Automatically he caught her, touch firm but gentle (it wouldn’t do to accidentally break something would it?) and pulled her closer with a laugh. 

“I have a lot of different houses actually. Some are tiny little cottage things and a few are more of what you might expect from someone with both my age and finances.