HET!
Title: The Last Dance
Wordcount: ~260
Rating: R
Pairing: Bela/Balthazar
Genre: Aaaaaaaaaaangst
Beta: pyjamagurl
Prompt: tiptoe39 gave me the title, I give her Belthazar, since she's the one who got me into this pairing.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
She stretches slowly, her thin muscles rippling almost to the beat of Mahler's Tenth Finale. The music is heavy, desperate, the swan song of a dying master, that the world thinks was never finished. The both of them are the only ones who know the truth and even the orchestra that played this recording for them forgot everything with a touch of Balthazar's fingers.
Bela is imperfect, flawed and blemished, and she's still the most precious of all the rare artifacts, the priceless works of art, the powerful weapons he ever stole. The sapphires on her ears, that compliment her eyes and are said to be cursed, are dull compared to this soul he coveted.
He dips his head and licks a path along the divot between Bela's hipbone and thigh.
Everything had been focused on Dean Winchester then: Hell in keeping him there, Castiel and their Brothers in raising him from Perdition. No one noticed as Balthazar dove for a different lost soul and kept it for himself.
Under all her humanity, there's still the barest hint of Hell in her sweat, a bittersweet aftertaste of the demon she was when he arrived, Hell having mimicked the events of her childhood and turning Bela into one of them. The demon he never managed to revert. Not completely. Not even after four years.
But it doesn't matter anymore, Balthazar muses, as he covers Bela's writhing body full of lust, so human and so impossibly rare. Tomorrow is the eclipse and he'll be facing his Brother one last time.
Wordcount: ~260
Rating: R
Pairing: Bela/Balthazar
Genre: Aaaaaaaaaaangst
Beta: pyjamagurl
Prompt: tiptoe39 gave me the title, I give her Belthazar, since she's the one who got me into this pairing.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
She stretches slowly, her thin muscles rippling almost to the beat of Mahler's Tenth Finale. The music is heavy, desperate, the swan song of a dying master, that the world thinks was never finished. The both of them are the only ones who know the truth and even the orchestra that played this recording for them forgot everything with a touch of Balthazar's fingers.
Bela is imperfect, flawed and blemished, and she's still the most precious of all the rare artifacts, the priceless works of art, the powerful weapons he ever stole. The sapphires on her ears, that compliment her eyes and are said to be cursed, are dull compared to this soul he coveted.
He dips his head and licks a path along the divot between Bela's hipbone and thigh.
Everything had been focused on Dean Winchester then: Hell in keeping him there, Castiel and their Brothers in raising him from Perdition. No one noticed as Balthazar dove for a different lost soul and kept it for himself.
Under all her humanity, there's still the barest hint of Hell in her sweat, a bittersweet aftertaste of the demon she was when he arrived, Hell having mimicked the events of her childhood and turning Bela into one of them. The demon he never managed to revert. Not completely. Not even after four years.
But it doesn't matter anymore, Balthazar muses, as he covers Bela's writhing body full of lust, so human and so impossibly rare. Tomorrow is the eclipse and he'll be facing his Brother one last time.