(Untitled)

[lordofthesouth]

Date: December 27, 1999
Setting: Tadfield Manor, Crowley's Room
Status: Private - Belial, Crowley, John, Aziraphale, Gabriel
Summary: Belial draws up a contract.

Comments

[anthony_crowley]

Crowley had been sitting on his bed simply waiting. He knew it wouldn't do any good to look over the spell one last time or fret about. He just sat still, thinking calming thoughts.

When the knock came, he knew who it was. He crossed to the door and opened it. The door disturbed the air around it and Crowley caught a faint smell of... something. Raising an eyebrow a carefully measured fraction of an inch, he gestured to Belial to enter.

Closing the door behind him, Crowley turned to speak.

"You've had some time to think about my proposal and its possible consequences. What's your decision, Belial?"

[lordofthesouth]

Belial slid his tongue across his lips self-consciously, eyes flickering about the room to be sure they were alone.

The answer to his knock had come swiftly; it made him flitting, nervous.

He was about to defy the master that had held his leash for longer than he cared to think upon. It terrified him.

Sliding his hand into a pocket near his hip, he produced a long silver chain dangling his portion of John Constantine's sundered soul. It glowed, pale blue against his palm, and he held it up for Crowley to see.

"Have you prepared the proper contracts?"

[anthony_crowley]

"I have," said Crowley formally as he crossed to his nightstand and pulled out a small stack of parchment. He indicated the chair near his bed

[lordofthesouth]

Belial weighed Crowley's words carefully, declining to sit, and instead stood directly in front of the other demon while he spoke.

He wrapped the pendant's chain about his fingers, tangling them and untangling them between the familiar links, weighing the delicate orb. Having an object about for such a time left his fingerprint on it. He could feel the faint imprints of himself that years of handling it had left bits of himself stained on the surface of the glass. Gazing fondly.

He could have Gabriel. He would do this, for even a marginal chance of having Gabriel. And of being free of Lucifer. John would have a third of his soul delivered into trusted hands.

"Do you have a pen?" he whispered, voice cracking.

[anthony_crowley]

Eying Belial and making note of the tension in his shoulders and hands, Crowley reached into the nightstand again to pull out a pen. It was a quill pen that he had made the night before using one of his black contour feathers and an exceptionally sharp steel nib. There was no corresponding ink well. There didn't need to be. He handed it to the other demon with his left hand, leaving his palm raised even after Belial lifted the pen from it.

"You know what to do."

[lordofthesouth]

Belial swallowed.

He should have known--should have suspected at the very least--that this was a contract that needed be signed and sealed with more than ink and crisp-cornered paper. He hadn't realized, though, how much this obviously meant to Crowley.

Hand steady despite his nervousness, he took the quill from Crowley and drew a light, scratching line across the other demon's palm, not breaking the skin, testing the sharpness of the tip. Crowley's hand was warm in his, back to palm, wrist exposed, Crowley watching.

When he cut the sigil into the soft skin he cringed as if it were his own pain that he had caused. Blood oozed beautifully from the parted flesh.

He returned the quill to Crowley and held his own palm out, swallowing, nose filled with Crowley's scent.

[anthony_crowley]

Unable to entirely suppress a hiss at the sharp pain, Crowley took the pen in his right hand and Belial's hand into his bloody left. Trying not to think about what he was doing, he swiftly carved his own mark onto Belial's smooth palm and dipped the pen into the welling blood.

He released the Crown's hand and carefully took up the last piece of paper from the stack of parchment. At the bottom were two signature lines and he scrawled his true name, the one he had not written for nearly twenty years, on the first.

Silently, he offered the pen, paper, and his now smeared, throbbing, bleeding hand back to Belial.

[lordofthesouth]

Belial scratched out his name, looping infernal sigils, with a faint hitch to his breath. He hated these formalities, these little rituals. Rules and constraints. Hated himself for wanting to do this when his mind and body should be focused solely on Gabriel.

Gabriel, oh, Gabriel.

The quill and paper fluttered to the floor and the shard of John's soul slipped from his hands. Hovering and glowing low to the ground.

Belial leaned over Crowley, legs on the either side of the other demon's, and wound their bloody hands together. Tugged, trussing Crowley with his limbs. A dark red trail outlined the space between the tendons of Crowley's wrist.

It tasted sweet when Belial laved it off.

[anthony_crowley]

Crowley looked surprised as Belial lapped at his wrist. That wasn't part of the ritual. Nor did he recall any need for the party of the second part to be sitting on the increasingly interested lap of the party of the first part. But there was still one thing that had yet to be done. He separated their sticky hands and licked a broad swath across Belial's palm so that he could see the marks he'd made.

Then, ever so delicately, he traced the cuts with his tongue and they began to close. The edges of each loop and slash fused and the bleeding stopped, but the claiming mark, his true signature, still remained and would for some time.

Crowley leaned back, his tongue thickly coated with heady demon blood, and presented his own hand.

[lordofthesouth]

Belial shook with unsatisfied desire, biting his lower lip as Crowley's tongue burned a path along his flayed skin, aching to watch his fingers disappear into Crowley's blood-stained mouth.

Wishing it were Gabriel touching him so delicately, gently, making him sore at heart and loin. Hoping desperately that soon it would be.

He drew Crowley's hand to his mouth and licked it with the broad of his tongue, like a submitting dog, eyes downcast and lashes struggling to hold heavy tears back. Relief flooded him, mingled with the smell of sex and sweet bloody skin. His hair fell before his black eyes, obscuring his view of Crowley.

[anthony_crowley]

Amazed at how intense the combination of Belial's submissive posture, slick tongue, and hard length pressing against his thigh could be, Crowley tried to get his racing pulse under control and spoke gutturally.

"Well, I think that's it, then..."

It was a hint, a plea, for Belial to stand up and let him compose himself for what was to come.

[lordofthesouth]

The sound of Crowley's voice was like a slap in the face; he slid obediently off the other demon's lap to the floor, kneeling beside the contract and the third of John's hovering soul, wiping blood off in damp clots.

It was done, then. The deal was made, the bargain struck; now all that was left was the exchange of goods.

"I apologize for any offense," he murmured, eyes canted downwards.

[anthony_crowley]

Crowley took a deep breath, reached for Belial's chin, and gently tilted it up to face him.

"There was no offense," he said softly and more steadily than he would have thought he could. "But it's time that this was done."

Leaning forward he pressed his lips to Belial's in a chaste kiss and stood, extending his undamaged right hand to help Belial up.