belials-phat-ass

[belials-phat-ass]

Write us out some self indulgent Juri hcs!! Treat yo self!! 😩

Juri - Romance Buff

Ever since childhood, Juri has been a sheepish romantic. Stacks of romance novels are tucked away beneath the bed in his room (strategically hidden between books on knights and heroes), and if you care to look even deeper, you might just catch a glimpse of his bodice-ripper smut before he combusts into flames and lives the rest of his life as a hermit in the mountains, where no-one can ever find him again.

He picked up the habit barely age ten, on a rainy day with his mother working and nothing better to do, and he became so enthralled that it took three months of his mother’s books going missing for her to figure out Juri was stockpiling them in his closet beneath a pile of inconspicuously folded clothes.

To this day, he remembers the day he was caught reading ‘Fifty Shades of Blue,’ as one of the most incriminating, embarrassing moments in his life, even if his mother took him to a market and bought him a whole bag of books on knight-hood to make him feel better about having to take it off him. ‘These books are a little better for someone your age,’ she told him, and though it was well-meaning, by that point he was hooked, and there were times that even the best dragon fight could not replace the comfort of reading a romance by candle-light.

He laments that he’s not quite as smooth as some of the heroes in his books. When he falls for you, he’d certainly like to do nothing more than sweep you off your feet with a menagerie of skills that runs all the way from cooking, past saving you from villains, and sometimes heads straight into the gutter. (He certainly thinks about that last part more than he should, though he won’t admit to it in a thousand years.)

His awkwardness in real life is absolutely the bane of his existence, and he only hopes that like some of the more unconventional stories he reads (where the knight isn’t as cool and mysterious as he is reliable and endearing), you’ll fall for him too. Until then, he wraps himself up in blankets and imagines you as the heroine for every one of his stories.

[belials-phat-ass]

Ulterior Motives - Part One | Part Two

“Is this closet to your taste?” is what Belial says, four and a half minutes after you’ve split from the Grandcypher’s main deck. As per your request, you’re squirreled far from the bustle that marks the ship’s social quarters, eight floors down into its basement. Had Belial not got bored of trailing behind you and dragged you to the nearest open door, you’d have probably walked as far as the staircase carried you, or at least until the rabble of laughter from the ongoing party thinned to silence—whichever came first.

Stacked, wooden crates reach up almost to the closet’s ceiling. When Belial shuts the door, a gust of wind gently blows the cobwebs that interlink them. There’s dust on every surface, and you can scarce see the floor from the scramble of brick-a-brac that makes a maze of the room. The window that looks out into the night sky is the only thing that brings light into the room, and if your eyes were not so well-adjusted to the dark from pacing through the corridors to get here, you probably wouldn’t see anything at all. Not exactly a penthouse suite, in other words.

“Can’t we walk until we find a bedroom, at least?”

“If you want that kind of luxury, you’ll have to walk through the living quarters. I can take you there, but you might as well climb up to the deck and announce our plans to everyone. Which I wouldn’t be opposed to, by the way. I just presumed you wanted to be discrete.”

“I do,” you spit at him. With an exasperated motion, you grab a wrench from a dusty utility box that sits on a shelf beside you and point it precariously at his nose. “I just don’t fancy having Rackam’s ship-fixing kit dig into my back when you rail me on the floor.”

“Who said anything about the floor?” Belial straightens from his slouch against the wall and takes a step closer. You wonder if he picked this room deliberately for how small it is—because he seems to find a lot of entertainment in physically cornering you.

“Of course,” you mutter sarcastically, “I forgot we could just nail ourselves to the ceiling.” He’s too close; you’re not looking at him.

He must not like that though, because in one, graceful motion, Belial snakes his hands beneath your thighs, cups your ass, and lifts you upwards. You yelp, but you wish you kept your mouth shut when he laughs at you, pressing his hips directly into yours and rocking his stirring erection with a deliberate precision you’re finding a hard time looking away from.

“How about something like this?” he growls into your ear. Pinned between him and the wall, his broad chest is firm against your front while the wood paneling behind you digs into your back. You’re helpless against the way he spreads your legs with his arms, and the sheer fear of being suspended makes you uselessly grasp at the wall behind you, like you’re hoping some kind of hold will appear out of thin air and give you a sense of security.

“You can hold onto me, you know,” he says, about as shrewdly as you’d expect.

“Prick.”

The chuckle that rumbles from his stomach is dark, and it’s the only warning you get before he closes in on your even further. He hasn’t given you much choice but to cling to the lapels of his jacket when he lifts you completely off the wall, and you hate him for it, but you’re quickly distracted by the way his mouth traces a soft path along your jawline.

“The floor,” he scoffs, as he holds you without any sign of difficulty. You’re pressed firmly into his erection, and you know it’s deliberate, but you still can’t help but grind into it pathetically. The groan that rumbles from his chest and into your ear is reward enough for losing grasp on your pride, and you do it again, a little harder. “Just like that.”

Satisfaction pours into you when his smile relaxes into something a little more serious. It’s a pipe dream, but you almost hope he loses himself in pleasure enough that he’ll forget about teasing you and let you fluster him for once.

Belial shifts your weight onto one of his arms as he sinks the other beneath your shorts and kneads your ass: skin-on-skin, like he promised. When he readjusts you again, the smooth loll of his hips continues, and so does another sinful moan that has you clenching your legs around his hips. You wonder how long he could hold you like this, without so much as a wall to distribute your weight, wonder how fast his knees will buckle and he’ll take you down to the floor, but then he kisses you on the lips and you stop thinking about that in favour of moaning into his mouth.

It’s him that breaks apart first, and you actively have to stop yourself from trailing your head after his. He’s good at this. You figured he would be; it’s half the reason you’re here right now, letting him use you like some kind of doll to grind against.

“Your clothes are becoming a hassle,” is all he says before he gently places you against the wall and leaves you to stand on your shaking legs. His eyes are glazed over with…lust, you think, though you’re not sure, as he immediately falls to his knees before you and wraps his arms around your thighs.

“That’s a good look for you,” you say.

“Kneeling?” His smile is devilish as he places his head on your thigh and grazes your hipbone with his nose. “Thought you’d like that.”

You’re completely aware he sees the tremors in your knees (probably feels them too, going off the way his arms rub circles into your skin). But you still feel good, still feel like you’ve got some control here, and maybe that’s what he’s going for, because he doesn’t make a move to get up.

“What do you want me to take off first?” he asks, as his hands thumb their way to your underwear.

“Your pants would be a good start.”

He laughs—a long genuine rumble, like his amusement reaches deeper than the usual, surface level smile he throws out to intimidate—but obliges, and his hands (reluctantly) stop toying with the band of your underwear to grasp his belt. “As you wish.”

It’s a strip-tease, you realise, by the time his second belt clatters to the floor. That deadly deliberation comes back with a flourish—another one of the many things in sex he’s inevitably good at: making a spectacle of things.

You can’t take your eyes away from the slow way he rolls his pants down his thighs, and you have to blink yourself awake when you realise you’re staring straight at his erection.

“Of course, you’re going commando,” you say, pre-emptively running your sleeve over the corner of your mouth before he can have the satisfaction of telling you to wipe the drool off your face. You don’t know whether he had the details of this evening planned even before he put on his clothes for the day, or whether underwear is just not something in his wardrobe, but both are in-character enough for him that you decide not to think about it.

He strokes his length languidly, looking a little too amused with how hard a time you’re having looking away. His pants are completely off, tossed somewhere you’ve already forgotten about.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were pleased about that.”

“Of course not.

This time when he falls to his knees, you don’t fluster. Your fingers bury into his hair and you push his face into your thighs. He makes it a point to brush his dick against your naked skin—just precariously enough that you know he’s doing it on purpose.

“It’s your turn,” he hums, and it’s all the warning you get before he strips you of your shorts and underwear in one, fell, swoop. His lips are immediately on your cunt, and the way he growls into your skin has you clenching your legs against him. There’s an unrestrained craze to him, like he’s only now been let off his leash—an image that gets more vivid when he lifts you by your thighs and hooks them over his shoulders.

“You’re just showing off now,” you mutter, but it’s broken up by a gasp—courtesy of the smooth flick of his tongue. His hands massage your ass again, and when you tug at his hair to grind him into you, he pays you back by digging his fingers in harder. When your head throws back and you writhe against the wall, his ministrations only get more insatiable. His apparent need to make you squirm takes over him completely—seeping out of everything he does to pamper you.

Pamper.

Not a word you’d ascribe to him in any other circumstance—when he does everything within his power to stir drama from the side-lines or plays the villain every chance he gets. But it’s true here, where most everything he’s done so far (even the little strip-tease you’re looking forward to seeing continue when he takes his jacket off), has been for your benefit.

Maybe sex just brings that out of him.

“That’s enough,” you gasp, when a particularly deliberate stroke of his tongue throws you off kilter almost entirely. He does oblige eventually, but he certainly takes his time, peppering you with a couple more kisses and nips before he finally decides he’s finished. When he stands up, he licks his lips with a seductive display that immediately has your thighs pressing together and the earth giving out from beneath your feet.

The triumphant way he looks over the state you’re in makes you sure he’s going to tease you (maybe finally point out how much your legs are shaking) but you’re surprised when he steps away and tugs at his jacket instead, shouldering out of it with a performance that you hate yourself for looking forward to.

He lets you enjoy his strut back towards you, placing one hand on either side of your head on the wall you’re pressed against, and sinks into your shoulder with a series of kisses made with the sole purpose of leaving a strikingly visible trail of bruises along your neck. It’s so easy to wrap your arms around his broad shoulders and fall into rhythm with him that, for a moment, you forget you’re in a dingy closet in the bowels of a ship—especially when he presses his cock into you and rolls his hips with a devastating precision that almost sends your knees buckling. When your breathing picks up and he grins into a kiss against where your jawline meets your neck, you feel like your fate has been sealed.

“Not that I want to spoil the moment,” he growls lowly, running his lips down to the corner of yours, “but is there any protection here for us to use?”

You lean away before he can kiss you on the lips, giving him a look that’s about three-quarters dazed, and one-quarter offended. “I was under the impression you had it covered, given how you initiated this whole thing.”

His face turns a little more serious, like he’s thinking about what to do next, and you immediately open your mouth to politely inform him he’ll have to wrap his dick in something if he wants this to go further, because as addled as you are, you’re just about coherent enough that you know anything else would be a bad idea.

“There is something else we can do,” he says before you have the chance to speak, and you look at him quizzically, though you immediately put two and two together when he tugs at your ass again.

“You’re kidding.”

The look he gives you is enough to let you know he’s not, but you’d be a fool to let it surprise you. All this talk of sodomy had to reach a conclusion somewhere. It’s why you don’t test him further, why you only give him an exasperated sigh before taking your top off and letting it fall to the floor.

The grin that splits his face makes you feel the most cornered yet. His spit still clings to your cunt, and you attempt to spread it down to your ass—another sign of your consent (one that makes you feel disgusting, but Belial certainly doesn’t look like he minds, and you suppose if there was ever a point of no-return to this debauchery, it was long, long before you even set foot in this room).

Without any hesitation, he steps away and reaches on the shelf beside you for a glass bottle of see-through liquid, that, after he pulls the cork out with an audible pop, smells distinctly of mixed herbs and flowers.

Lubricant. Of course.

“You could have at least pretended to look for it,” you tell him, but it comes out so half-hearted you’re sure he knows you’re struggling to scrape together the frustration to voice it. So, this whole night has been part of his plan, then. Sneaky bastard.

“And miss that look on your face?”

Immediately, you harden your features from whatever displeased grimace snuck onto them, and he laughs at you.

When he slinks his fingers into the glass bottle, you spread your legs without thinking. He comes down to his knees again, gives your cunt another, quick kiss as his hand makes its way to your ass. The lube is cold, but it’s not an unpleasant sensation: like mint against your skin (which, now that you think about it, is probably one of the ingredients).

“How does that feel?” he asks when he slips a finger in. It’s clear he’s enjoying himself, but there’s a surprising, sober edge to his eyes as he scans your face.

“Awful,” you lie, only because you know he’ll see right through it. You’re rewarded with another, throaty laugh, and you’re trying to pretend you’re not growing addicted to his genuine shows of amusement by the time he uses his other hand to spread some of the substance on himself before putting it back on the shelf. Your gaze stutters when he runs circles of it on the head of his cock, and by the time you look up to meet his eyes, you know you’ve been caught.

“I tested it when I bought it, to make sure,” he starts and strains his hips, pushing forward so you can have a better view of him, “just so you don’t start thinking I’m taking it out for a joy ride on you.”

He’s made it clear enough that he enjoys your attention, so you don’t stop yourself from watching his left hand run up and down his length—a motion so tantalising you’re having to actively resist from kneeling down and helping him with it. The hand that’s not tending to himself is pushing in and out of your ass, and there really is a deliberate care to the way he makes sure to stretch you slowly—cautiously, almost. You lift your hips off the wall, using your hands to spread your ass-cheeks to make things a little easier for him.

“And when was that?” The real question you’re trying to ask is probably quite obvious, but you can’t help wanting to know how long this plan has been in the making; you only made the executive decision to host Belial’s welcome party last night, but it seems like this has been on his mind for a little longer.

He hums, as though pretending to think. “When do you think?” Responding to a question with a question. You shouldn’t have expected getting a straight answer to be easy.

“Two days?”

The finger inside of you stops, curls, but he says nothing. So, you’re wrong, then.

“Three?”

“Would you believe me…” he starts, taking his finger out of you and briefly dipping it, along with another, into the vial of lubricant, “if I told you I made this purchase the night you welcomed me onto the Grandcypher?” The statement is punctuated by both of the aforementioned fingers slipping into you, and you’re distracted by it momentarily before you realise what he’s said.  You give him a surprised look (that runs head-to-toe with a slow-building pleasure slowly threatening to take over you, most visible in the way you’re rocking against his hand).

“That was a whole fortnight ago,” you say barely above a breath. It took two more days to convince everyone else of the decision, another six after that until a select few trusted him enough to let him help with chores, and it was only two nights ago that you inspired enough sympathy within the crew that they finally agreed he’d done enough to have an official welcome party.

“Don’t get me wrong. This, I’ve wanted to do long before then.” His fingers make a series of final, decisive strokes until they trail off and he slips them out. Slowly, he stands up and moves his hands to knead your ass in slow, languid circles. “But that was the day I decided it would mean something more.”

“Something more?” You feel like this conversation is veering off into dangerous territory, but your curiosity still springs ahead.

Belial nods. “You bristle at almost every word I say, but ever since the beginning, you’ve accommodated me, even when others have insisted otherwise. I can’t not be grateful for that.”

There’s something vulnerable about his sincerity here—something you’ve never seen before. The sea of stars from outside the window sparks a glimmering reflection in his eyes, and he stares at you, waiting for a response that you’re not sure you can give him. Even the muted laughter and bustle of talk from the deck has settled to a thick silence, like the night has swallowed them up and left only you and the flurry of feelings waging war in your chest. When he rests his hands on your hips, moves in closer and nestles his head in the crook of your shoulder, you’re overcome with a fear that you’re going to say something you might regret.

“So much for simple skin-on-skin,” you say, to diffuse it.

You’re relieved when he laughs, but it doesn’t feel quite right. It’s slow, too unhurried to be on par with the other ones of tonight, and you think he knows you’re trying to shift away from this dynamic. For a moment, you’re worried he’s going to ask you whether you’d like to return to whatever faux hatred marked your back-and-forth from earlier in the evening, but the concern must show in your expression, because he doesn’t.

Instead, his next move is to take a step away from you. Whether it’s done with the intention of giving space, or just so he can once-again take in the entirety of your naked body, still wet and glistening in the low-light of stars, you’re not sure. He looks you up and down, and by the time he gestures for you to turn around, you feel sufficiently defenceless that you also believe it’s in your best interest— especially if you don’t want to burn up completely in the lust that floods his expression.

In one step, he moves back towards you—his chest against your back. “Better?” he whispers into your ear, pressing his erection into your backside. You can’t see his face, can’t see what he’s doing, and the helplessness from before returns threefold when he pushes your head into the wall and rocks against you. “Personally, I would prefer to see your face. But this…” he says, and slaps your ass, “isn’t bad, either.”

You only let slip a breathy little moan against the wall, and he takes that as a challenge—like you’re not nearly loud enough for him. He lines the head of his cock (still slick from the lube) against you, and teases you momentarily by running it length-ways, up and down, until you arch your back for him in a display that (you’re sure) looks wholly pitiful.

“If only you could see yourself,” he says, “strung out for me to take like a common whore.” You’re just about to call him a prick again when he finally gives you what you want, sinking in part-way with a drawn-out push. A gasp rattles out from you instead, and Belial revels in it: grabs your hips and digs his fingers in—like he’s claiming them as his. “Crying out so you can finally have something inside of you.”

Slowly (very slowly) he starts rolling his hips against yours. He hasn’t sheathed himself into you entirely, and he seems to be content teasing you while you adjust around him. His left hand hooks into your cheek and curls its fingers over your bottom teeth. It tastes of herbs, of mint, of sharp spice, and you feel its tang all the way throughout your mouth.

“Lick them,” he tells you.

You take too long, and he tugs at your mouth and rocks into you harder.

“Lick them.”

A long moan shakes through your body as you listen to him, and he rewards you with his lips and tongue against your shoulder—intermittent with the edge of his teeth. Another mark you’re sure you’ll see evidence of in the morning. He doesn’t take his fingers out until they’re coated in your saliva, and you’re almost sure the taste of herbs will never run out of your mouth when, from the slick, debauched sound it makes, you can tell he uses those fingers to stroke down the length of his cock not already inside of you.

He must be surprised when you spread your legs a little further for him, a non-verbal permission to push further, go deeper, because he stops spreading your saliva around his cock, but he obliges almost immediately, pushing your hips further into his and thrusting with so much force that you’re pressed flat against the wall.

“Good,” he says, and a shiver rips through you. “Spread yourself for me.” When he thrusts into you now, it has none of the patient gentleness of before, like he’s finally decided to sever whatever part of him was eager to wait for you until you were ready. Every single time his hips lift up, you feel yourself get pushed with them, and you’re completely at his mercy by the time he wraps his arms around to your front and sinks the fingers of his left hand into your cunt, curling them with a messy (but no less deliberate) motion that has you stuttering your breaths against the wall.

“Just like that,” he says. The other hand stays at your hip, directing you to wherever he wants you to be. You weep in pleasure, and you can physically feel the sound echo through him with a sense of victory when he hears it, because the hand around your hip wraps entirely around your stomach to really press you into him. His next thrust is twice as deep, felt with a blistering force that only makes you cry out again—only makes him push harder.

One of your hands braces against the wall while the other grapples helplessly around the arm Belial presses against your stomach. He sings more filthy words of praise into your ears as he rams into you faster, and if there was someone on the other side of the wall, hell, if there was anyone on this floor, they'd probably hear the way you're moaning against the wood panels. Helpless. Totally at his mercy. 

You're nearing climax, and he recognises it in the hitch of your wrecked breathing, tattered with whines. The quick way he acts makes it seem as though sheer practise has sent him on auto-pilot. You writhe against the fingers buried in your cunt when he curls them faster, in time with the erratic pace of his hips, but the hold he has on you is deathly—firmly refusing your attempts to escape until you crash over the edge with a drawn out, shuddering whine—falling limp in his arms as the haze of orgasm whips over your entire body: calves, arms, and most obviously, your head, where you can barely think for long enough to realise he’s murmuring affirmations of “good, good; let go; cum for me,” into your ear.

You’re clenching around his fingers, and he pistons them as if to stoke your orgasm for the last few gasps until he too, is finished, filling you up with a throaty groan you feel most as it shoots straight into your cunt. 

Most of his emission ends up inside of you, but he slides out and aims the final few strings of cum to land on your ass—a final little gift before he lets go of your stomach and breaks apart from you entirely.

For a moment, you just stand there, easing your breath into something a little less obviously ravaged. The only silver lining is that when you will your shaking legs to move and turn around, Belial doesn’t look any better. Sweat slicks his muscles, even in the low-light of the closet, and his hair (mussed from when his face was between your thighs) is still completely unkempt.

“Disgusting,” you mutter, when you hear the cum he left inside of you drip to the floor. He seems to disagree, because it takes him a long while of staring before he can even take his eyes away from your ass. (And even when he does, the next thing that comes out of his mouth is said specifically to piss you off).

“You suit bruises.”

Your hand immediately flies to your neck, and when you walk up to the window to see your reflection, indeed covered (collar to jawline) in bright, red marks, you curse. He laughs.

When you shoot him a glare that probably looks a lot less annoyed than you’d like it to, the remnants of his laugh ease off to a cocky grin. He stands behind you and softly (almost tenderly) runs his hand along the trail of hickeys on your neck.

“They certainly would look nice with an audience to appreciate them,” he says. The statement lodges itself into your head, running on repeat until you can unearth whatever is buried between the lines of his words. “But I take it you’ll want to hide them.”

His finger rests on a particularly bright one, and you see the reflection of his hand in the window as he traces its outline. He’s not wrong. You’d have certainly preferred to come out of this closet with absolutely no evidence of what transpired tonight. To that end, you certainly could layer scarves for the next couple of weeks until they faded, and they could be explained away by claiming you bumped into something—or some goblin grabbed your throat in the midst of a fight. But that’s not what Belial wants to hear. And you surprise yourself, because it’s not what you want, either.

“There’s no point,” you say, and look at him expectantly. “As soon as they fade, you’ll just give me new ones.”

It’s a brave statement, and Belial must know that you’re nervously awaiting the reveal of his remaining intentions. Still, it’s only fair for him to want to feel out the situation before he commits to a response, so you’re not surprised when he prods you with another question.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to have Sandy replace them? He’d be more than eager if you asked.” His face is a well-sharpened mask of stone. You can’t help but wonder what lurks beneath it: whether jealousy is explanation for his flirtatious whispers in your ear when Sandalphon can see you together, or whether it comes down to possessiveness. That he wants you and doesn’t like that someone else feels the same.

“I can’t imagine sodomy in a closet is something he’d be up for,” you answer immediately.

You suppose that whatever part of him was holding off about inquiring how you truly felt about him before (it was, more than a chance to get his dick wet, a genuine show of gratitude in perhaps the only way he knew how, and he was probably wise enough to know that being grilled was not what you were looking for at the time) has disappeared now, because his next question is shockingly sentimental.

“Is that how it’s to be then?” he asks, and you look at him curiously. “He’s to warm your bed while I’m to sit around in closets?”

Oddly, this is the weakest your knees have felt all night. You know what you want to say. That there’s a reason you’ve been sticking by his side so indiscriminately—arguing against anyone opposed to giving him a second chance and firmly holding your ground to defend him every chance you get. But you don't feel strong enough to say it, not nearly. At least until Belial’s hand drops from your shoulder, like he’s about to take a step away, and you feel it lurch to your throat.

“You can do both if you want,” you blurt, before you have a chance to stop yourself.

Another grin takes over him—genuine, real as the last few that came before it. You steel your face as he turns you around to give you another kiss in the crook of your collar, trying, with intrepid resolve, to pretend you’re not happy to see it.

You’re convinced he knows, anyway.

[belials-phat-ass]

hhhhhhh nsfw with belial??? (btw good luck on this blog!!!!!)

Ulterior Motives - Part One | Part Two

There’s a tense sense of caution among the crew tonight.

By all means, this is out of the ordinary. Acquiring new recruits is usually a cause for celebration—and sure, that’s what it may look like on the surface: there’s mead in your glass and the flicker of the lantern in front of you graces a homely half-light on the messy circle of people gathered around it. As is usually customary, everyone has split off into smaller groups, and though you usually like to dot around them over the course of the night, you can’t find the heart to ditch the one you’re in right now.

Nobody here is stranger to making unlikely allies out of former enemies, but Belial sticks out like a sore thumb among the close-knit assembly of the Grandcypher crew nevertheless. Even Hallassena looks a little put-off as she chews on her cutlet, eyeing him with a distinct sense of distrust that has you feeling a little bad for him.

Sure, he’s crass, slimy, overly antagonistic, and you certainly can’t blame Katalina for ushering all the kids to the other side of the deck when he puts his foot in his mouth with some mention of sodomy, but it still seems like a shame to leave him to his own devices during (what should be) his welcome party. You’ve been trying not to make it obvious, but you can tell Belial knows exactly what’s going on. He has to be aware that everyone is avoiding him.

“You must really like this spot,” he says, from his seat next to yours, when the two of you are alone (not for the first time that evening). “Everyone else is jumping from group to group, and yet for some reason, you haven’t left my side all night.” The way he holds his glass of wine is deceptively conservative. You know that it functions as more of a weaponised prop to him than anything else—something to flash his enigmatic grin over while he waits for your response.

“Got bored of me, have you?” you ask, rocking back and forth on the barrel you’re sat on. “Don’t worry, I’ll go as soon as we find someone else willing to put up with you.”

There’s something about the way he looks at you that always makes you feel like you’re walking right into a trap, and the grin that takes over his face is no exception.

“Well, in that case…” he begins, and your gut is screaming: danger, danger, danger, “maybe I should take care to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

The rocking stops. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing at all,” he says, but even at best, it sounds like foreshadowing. Belial looks almost prideful as he appraises everyone’s uncomfortable side-ways glances in his direction, and you’re beginning to think he’s not feeling as sorry for himself as you might suspect. “Say, how many inappropriate jokes do you think Will can stomach? It seems like he wants to come check with us.”

With a sudden realisation, you sit up straight. “You’re doing this on purpose,” you proclaim, doing your best to hold, what you hope, is an intimidating expression.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

With a frustrated huff, you look away from him. “God, I should have known you were just being an ass the whole night.” You make a dramatic display of standing up and dusting yourself off but you’re not nearly as annoyed at him for tethering you to his side all night as you should be, which by itself is enough to piss you off.

He doesn’t look urgent as he reaches his hand out for yours, but you think he might care about you leaving more than you assumed, judging from the thought he puts into seductively rubbing his thumb across your skin.

“Will you forgive me if I tell you that I wanted to have you to myself tonight?” All traces of subtlety smoulder in his suggestive smile. Even his tone, usually seeping with arrogance, takes on a honeyed loll—hand-crafted just to ease you into reading between the lines.

“I won’t sleep with you Belial,” is what you tell him. You don’t expect that to put him off, and you’re right.

“Why is that?” His grin is conspiratorial: it stirs in your belly, sticks needles up your spine. It’s remarkable how after all this time nothing has curbed the inherent sliminess of his demeanour. You doubt anything ever will.

“Would you sleep with someone you don’t trust?”

You swear his grin gets wider.

“Depends on the person.” It’s too easy to lose yourself in the way his hand trails further upwards. He’s running slow circles on the inside of your elbow, and you despise the disproportionate blaze of frustration when he stops, for barely a moment.

You know he’s looking for your reaction. That the way he looks you up and down (even tilts his barrel towards you to get a better look, the bastard) is no more than him watching for the first sign of breakage. Stubbornly, you harden your features to rob him of the satisfaction, but the feeling of being trapped returns threefold when he looks away from you, like he’s found what he was looking for, and you realise with a lurch to your throat you’ve just given yourself away.

“Why the long face?” he asks. You can tell just from his tone that he sees right through you. “I’ve only seen you this serious in front of your enemies.”

“I suppose you would know; you used to be one of them.”

You’re surprised when his ever-present grin wipes into a serious grimace, and you wonder, not without a little bit of satisfaction, that maybe you’ve struck a nerve.

“Is the idea of sex with me really so unappealing?” he asks, as his hand drops to his side.

The most credible refusal would be to immediately laugh in his face, but by the time you’ve finished being surprised at the sincerity of his bitterness, you don’t have the heart for it. You doubt little more than his pride is on the line, but it’s clear that he does, to some degree, care about this. Maybe more than he might let on, given the impatient way he glances you over as he waits for your response.

“Not quite,” is what you tell him. “If that was all it was, I’d gladly ditch these pleasantries and hole up in a closet with you for half an hour.”

Belial surprised at your boldness, but pleasantly so, judging from the way he takes hold of your hand again and coaxes you to stand closer. “Then what’s the problem?”

You give him an exasperated look.

It’s hardly been a week since he joined the Grandcypher, and in-between his constant attempts to turn the dynamic of your crew into constant sparks of drama, the flirty gestures he sends your way when Sandalphon is looking, and his general, slimy approach to getting under people’s skin, you know him well enough to assume he’s got ulterior motives.

“The problem, Belial, is that I’m sure this is just another one of your games. As soon as I agree, you’re going to try to get something more out of this. To see how far you can push my buttons or get me to admit things. That’s not something I want to play tonight.”

The way Belial brings your hand to rest inches before his lip makes your legs press together in anticipation. He notices, you know he does, but he doesn’t comment. Not even when he kisses your wrist and you physically feel the heat rush to your ears.

“How about if I promise no games?” is what he says. Neutral expression. No hint of knowing teasing in his voice. “Just simple skin-on-skin. One night. If you don’t like it, I’ll never speak of it again.”

And you don’t know what it is that makes you agree, but you suspect it comes part in part with the coiling in your stomach. The hungry way he looks up at you, standing over him. Because despite whatever smooth lies and deflections he spins into your ears, despite being completely sure there’s a part of this bargain you’re missing out on, you can’t help but believe that maybe, somehow, it’ll be fun.

Simple skin-on-skin, you think, and scoff. Nothing with Belial is ever simple.

[belials-phat-ass]

Rules:

Reader inserts only!

If you want to ensure the reader is gender neutral, please specify as such your ask. I get lazy with this sometimes and default to female.

Please request Juri; I love him.

NSFW and angst submissions are both very welcome and absolutely preferred.

Nothing is off the table, though I’m likely to cherry-pick the submissions I like the best.

That’s it!