When Paimon first felt the tug of a summoning, he already guessed what was about to come: another amateur warlock and/or witch, attempting to wheedle him into a contract. The more experienced ones have already learnt that he’d much rather pulverise their spines than agree to a deal. So Paimon gave in to the pull, knowing he couldn’t deny it even if he wanted to, and he was in the mood for blood.
So when he landed, he, admittedly, had been expecting the devil’s trap waiting for him. He hadn’t, though, been expecting a bucketful of holy water to the face. A searing pain instantly bloomed throughout Paimon’s skin and flesh as the holy water soaked through his clothes, but he only let out a muted hiss. He was, after all, no stranger to this process. People would summon him, entrap him in a circle of runes, splash holy water on him, or maybe if it's a fun night, carve Enochian sigils into every inch of his flesh in an attempt to torture him into submission. Unfortunately for them, however, it almost never worked. Paimon had been walking the earth since god knows when, so really, it was a piss-poor idea to fuck with him. Not that it got them down, though -- they just kept on trying. Paimon wasn't sure why, but whatever floats their boat, right?
Shaking off the remainder of the holy water, Paimon looked down at himself, the burns were already starting to heal. He snapped his head back up to look at the warlock that summoned him right in the eyes, Paimon’s own flashing from pale blue to a bottomless pool of black. The warlock flinched, although the demon could tell he was trying to hide it. The least he could do was give him an ‘A’ for effort. "So, what can I do you for, O' Great and Powerful wizard?" Paimon drawled mockingly, his entire frame assuming that characteristic, sardonic tilt.
Not that Paimon’s current form was all that intimidating. In fact, it was quite the opposite. ‘Isaiah Corcoran’ was short and cute, with a toothy grin and the kind of boyish charm that livened up the clothes he bought for him with stolen money. Paimon made his name up, because he doesn’t care what his real name was, and neither does he.
It had been two years ago when Paimon found him in a hospital, catatonic and comatose. They have an agreement of sorts, the demon uses his empty body, and in return, he does not waste away in a hospital bed. ...Not that he’d signed any official papers, it’s been years and the demon has yet to find any traces of thoughts in that pretty skull of his. The boy was gone, so Paimon sincerely doubted that he’d mind if he helped himself to his leftovers.
“Please tell me you’re gonna sacrifice a chicken. I’ve always found that part so quaint.” Paimon’s voice lilted with amusement, and a sharp bark of laughter escaped from him when the warlock only scowled and turned away to prepare another batch of holy water.
Inky, black eyes scanned the devil’s trap for any runes that were missing or out of place, before finally, he spotted something. A blank piece of flooring where an intricate symbol should’ve been. Paimon could barely contain himself, at that. Had humans always been this incompetent? It took every last ounce of willpower he had to not dart over and snap the warlock’s neck. No, he had to make this last, to make an example out of him. Sure, he had better things to do, but Paimon had never been one to turn down such a rare opportunity.
Whilst the warlock’s back was turned, he stepped out of the faulty trap, apparated behind him, and waited for his victim to turn back around. A look of pure horror (which Paimon found absolutely delightful) crossed the warlock’s face when as he realised what had transpired. Perhaps a hint of regret, as well? Regret at having gotten out of bed this morning, regret at having attempted to control a demon that was thousands of years old - etcetera, etcetera. It was all the same to Paimon, really, but that split second where the guy looked like he’d just pissed himself? Priceless. And as Paimon’s would-be victim would soon realise…
He was well and truly fucked.
By the time Paimon was finished, the warlock was hardly recognisable. Strips of skin hung from his torso and face, the exposed flesh already festering with the beginnings of gangrene. The concrete floor was stained brick red with blood, peppered with shards of bone, and a few yards away, were a set of clumsily amputated hands and feet. The demon didn’t have enough time to do a proper job with the skinning, but he supposed it would suffice. Most humans were squeamish enough that the mere sight of bloody, dribbling organs would cause an upchuck of their lunch, and possibly even a lifetime’s worth of nightmares.
Just as Paimon was about to leave, however, his cellphone rang. A useful invention, if he did say so himself. Now, he longer had to go through all the trouble of slitting a person’s throat, draining their blood into a chalice, just to contact his demonic brethren.
Sliding a finger across the screen, Paimon then held the phone up to his ear. ...Well, his meatsuit’s ear, if you want to get all technical about it, but that was besides the point.
“Hello?”
Paimon very quickly realised just who he was speaking to. After all, that nickname wasn’t something he heard very often. Not many individuals felt comfortable enough to assign him such a ridiculous, childish moniker.
“But Taco Bell’s fucking amazing. Have you seen the shit they come up with? The Cheesarito? Double-grilled quesadillas? Oh, and get this - Waffle. Tacos. Tell me that doesn’t sound incredible.” Paimon’s earnest was genuine, and he was sure no one would bother them there. Shitty fast-food chains were always filled to the brim with society’s worst, anyway. What difference would a demon or two make? “Come on, Dom. Don’t be an asshole, I think better with a full stomach.”