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.
