Title: Mistletoe
Pairing: John/Balthazar
Rated: PG-13; one swear word
A/N: For some reasons, these two have entered my head again and wouldn't leave me alone. This ficlet came about from reading old J/B fics and laying in my bathtub, wondering what these two would be like around the holidays. This doesn't really answer that question, but it's what I came up with it, and I was rather pleased with the outcome. Anyways, I do hope everyone who reads it enjoys it, and makes sure I know that with reviews!
A knock at the door. No time for a reaction, not even a sarcastic remark before he's grabbed and pulled into a hot kiss; hotter even, some might say, than the fires of hell itself. But John knows better. It's not hotter, it's exactly the same.
Another thing John notices is that this kiss is neither forceful nor bruising. On the contrary, it's lazy and rather gentle, with ample opportunity for John to pull away. And John would do just that, if it wasn't the best kiss he had had in a long time. So he doesn't; instead he deepens it, relishing and despising the forked tongue that snakes between his lips.
Had John not been so absorbed by the kiss, he would notice that he is neither being pushed against the wall nor down on the ground, which is usually what would be happening at this point. He would also realize that he is being held tightly against his companion's solid frame by a tail, which has secured itself firmly around John's waist.
And then, just as quickly as it began, it stops. The demon hunter sees those soft, full lips that had been firmly pressed against his own only seconds ago curve into a small smirk, which makes John hate himself for wanting to kiss them again. The tail has disappeared, and only its absence makes John realize that it was there in the first place.
"Merry Christmas, Johnny-boy," Balthazar purrs in a silk-smooth voice before turning and leaving; gone, like the kiss, as quickly as he had arrived. John furrows his brow at this statement before looking up to see the mistletoe hanging above his doorway. Angela must have stuck it up there earlier that day, unbeknowst to him; part of her vain attempt to get him into the holiday spirit.
"Merry fucking Christmas," he mutters to himself, but there is the barest trace of a smile on his face as he heads to his room and shuts the door behind him, making a mental note to thank Angela when he next sees her.
Fin