Original -- Greeks Bearing Gifts
Title: Greeks Bearing Gifts
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,078
Warnings: threesome sexytimes, remarkably uncouth terminology in multiple languages
Prompt: Flirting is the gentle art of making a man feel pleased with himself. -- Helen Rowland at pulped_fictions
Summary: Belial shows Maion and Vincent how to party like it's 776 BC.
Author's Note: Uh… Belial/Maion/Vincent. It's eltea's fault YOU'RE WELCOME.
GREEKS BEARING GIFTS
The only thing worse than drinking with a demon is drinking with the demon who owns the bar.
“Maion,” Vincent says, “what are you doing?”
Maion looks up from where he has poured the contents of the pepper shaker out next to a liquor spill, the better to craft tiny chairs out of straw wrappers and crown them with his drink umbrellas.
“…making a beach?” the angel says.
Vincent notices a mound which may, in fact, be a miniature sandcastle. “Adorable.”
“Better question,” Belial says from Vincent’s other side. “How much wine do I have to pour down your delectable little throat before you get… pliable?”
“There is not enough wine in the history of the world,” Vincent says.
“Do you know how much the Greeks drank?” Belial asks.
Maion leans around Vincent and stares at Belial, mouth open in amazement. “We were specifically prohib… i… not allowed to interfere with them!”
“You and your goody-two-shoes brothers were,” Belial says. “My team doesn’t believe in rules. Especially rules that are boring, rules that suck, and rules that prevent us from partying with drunk, half-naked Mediterraneans.”
Maion’s bright blue eyes are implausibly wide. “At… the beach?”
Belial grins with a hint of snake fangs. “Every square inch of the country, darling.”
Vincent leans back as Maion leans forward across him. The angel’s eyes are going to pop out and roll across the bar any second, and Vincent knows who’s cleaning that up.
“But-did you calculate the surface area of Greece beforehand? How did you keep track? Did you plot out who would cover which regions? Did y-”
Belial fists both hands in Maion’s bright gold hair and kisses him soundly.
“Nique ta mère!” Vincent cries, flinging himself away from that.
The barstool teeters, and then it tips, and then Vincent is on the highly unsanitary floor, hearing his head crack against the floorboards and watching the dark close in.
Vincent wakes up with his skull throbbing and his wrist handcuffed to a bedframe, which lands this squarely on the list of the top five rudest awakenings in two-hundred and fifty years.
He tugs on the cuff. No dice. More pertinently, no freedom. The links of the chain are thick and even, and the frame is welded securely into a rectangular shape. He’s going to need PCP, a miracle, or a blowtorch. Maybe all three.
On second thought, now that he’s stuck here, it might be wise to find out what here actually entails.
A quick self-assessment confirms that his brain seems to have been jarred but not permanently damaged, that all of his limbs are more or less intact, and that most of his accessories have been appropriated-suit jacket, waistcoat, tie, belt, shoes, socks, and definitely wallet. He steels himself and looks up.
Wait a damn second, this is his house. This is the soothing-sage-green-themed guest room, which is where he usually keeps Edward the Service Werewolf-except that last night was the full moon, which is essentially a werewolf holiday. With no canine mutant hybrid freak around to entertain him, Maion insisted on going out for a daiquiri, as Maion often does in fits of incredible stupidity.
Speaking of Maion, there is a lump under the soothing-sage-green duvet which has sprouted voluminous gold hair. Vincent reaches over and pokes what appears to be a shoulder. The lump mumbles something, and then a section of blanket shifts back to reveal a slightly glazed pair of turquoise eyes.
“I think he practiced,” Maion says. “With the Greeks.”
Vincent is not stupid enough to ask.
He doesn’t have to: Belial strolls out of the adjoined bathroom wearing a red silk smoking jacket and… a smirk. That appears to be all.
“Thank you for joining us,” he purrs.
“You’re sick,” Vincent says.
“No,” Belial says, “I’m uninhibited. There is a substantial difference.”
Maion peeks a little further out of the covers. “I am fairly sure you are also ill.”
“All right,” Belial says. “I’m sick and uninhibited. And horny.” He beams. “Demon. Horns. Get it?”
Vincent wonders if he can bang his head back against the bedframe with enough force to knock himself unconscious again.
“Are you feeling trepidatious, Vincent?” Maion asks, eyes huge again. His hands have also emerged from the duvet cocoon to pluck at the sheets.
“That’s one word for it,” Vincent said. “‘Murderously angry’ would also describe my emotional state.”
Maion looks crushed. “If I’d known you’d feel like that, I never would have let Belial sling you over his shoulder and slap your rear end appreciatively and then vanish all three of us in a plume of flame and then tie you up and take my clothes off and lick me in places I didn’t know tongues could g-”
Vincent finally manages to push words through the disbelieving horror. “Are you still drunk?”
“Perhaps,” Maion says. He nibbles on his bottom lip and thinks about it. “Most likely.”
“Well,” Belial says grandly, sitting down at the foot of the bed and smoothing his robe, “I think we just need to make him feel welcome, sweetheart.”
Maion worries his lip between his teeth a little more. Vincent is definitively not noticing how full and pink and wet that lip is. “You think so?”
“I know so,” Belial says warmly. “He’s just jealous that I got to have you all to myself.”
“Hold the motherfucking phone,” Vincent says.
Except then Maion-lump is moving, fast. And then Maion-no-longer-lump has seized the front of Vincent’s slacks and is impervious to frantic shooing hands and desperate yelps of “In the name of all that is holy, what are you doing?”
“You,” Belial says. “Obviously.”
Maion’s mouth is extremely hot, and there is no way that a presumably heretofore-celibate angel should be able to do things like that.
“Oh,” Vincent’s voice says. “Oh, my… God.”
“Close enough,” Belial says.
“You lying sack of sh… ohmyGod, where did you learn that?”
Maion is slightly too preoccupied to answer.
“If you don’t like it,” Belial says cheerfully, “just tell him to stop.”
Vincent hurls a soothing-sage-green pillow at him.
Some indistinguishable interval later, the door opens. Vincent drags himself far enough out of the exhausted post-orgasmic haze enough to raise his head and attempt to look.
Edward stares at the evidence of the threesome that just unfolded on his bed and screams like a little girl.
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,078
Warnings: threesome sexytimes, remarkably uncouth terminology in multiple languages
Prompt: Flirting is the gentle art of making a man feel pleased with himself. -- Helen Rowland at pulped_fictions
Summary: Belial shows Maion and Vincent how to party like it's 776 BC.
Author's Note: Uh… Belial/Maion/Vincent. It's eltea's fault YOU'RE WELCOME.
GREEKS BEARING GIFTS
The only thing worse than drinking with a demon is drinking with the demon who owns the bar.
“Maion,” Vincent says, “what are you doing?”
Maion looks up from where he has poured the contents of the pepper shaker out next to a liquor spill, the better to craft tiny chairs out of straw wrappers and crown them with his drink umbrellas.
“…making a beach?” the angel says.
Vincent notices a mound which may, in fact, be a miniature sandcastle. “Adorable.”
“Better question,” Belial says from Vincent’s other side. “How much wine do I have to pour down your delectable little throat before you get… pliable?”
“There is not enough wine in the history of the world,” Vincent says.
“Do you know how much the Greeks drank?” Belial asks.
Maion leans around Vincent and stares at Belial, mouth open in amazement. “We were specifically prohib… i… not allowed to interfere with them!”
“You and your goody-two-shoes brothers were,” Belial says. “My team doesn’t believe in rules. Especially rules that are boring, rules that suck, and rules that prevent us from partying with drunk, half-naked Mediterraneans.”
Maion’s bright blue eyes are implausibly wide. “At… the beach?”
Belial grins with a hint of snake fangs. “Every square inch of the country, darling.”
Vincent leans back as Maion leans forward across him. The angel’s eyes are going to pop out and roll across the bar any second, and Vincent knows who’s cleaning that up.
“But-did you calculate the surface area of Greece beforehand? How did you keep track? Did you plot out who would cover which regions? Did y-”
Belial fists both hands in Maion’s bright gold hair and kisses him soundly.
“Nique ta mère!” Vincent cries, flinging himself away from that.
The barstool teeters, and then it tips, and then Vincent is on the highly unsanitary floor, hearing his head crack against the floorboards and watching the dark close in.
Vincent wakes up with his skull throbbing and his wrist handcuffed to a bedframe, which lands this squarely on the list of the top five rudest awakenings in two-hundred and fifty years.
He tugs on the cuff. No dice. More pertinently, no freedom. The links of the chain are thick and even, and the frame is welded securely into a rectangular shape. He’s going to need PCP, a miracle, or a blowtorch. Maybe all three.
On second thought, now that he’s stuck here, it might be wise to find out what here actually entails.
A quick self-assessment confirms that his brain seems to have been jarred but not permanently damaged, that all of his limbs are more or less intact, and that most of his accessories have been appropriated-suit jacket, waistcoat, tie, belt, shoes, socks, and definitely wallet. He steels himself and looks up.
Wait a damn second, this is his house. This is the soothing-sage-green-themed guest room, which is where he usually keeps Edward the Service Werewolf-except that last night was the full moon, which is essentially a werewolf holiday. With no canine mutant hybrid freak around to entertain him, Maion insisted on going out for a daiquiri, as Maion often does in fits of incredible stupidity.
Speaking of Maion, there is a lump under the soothing-sage-green duvet which has sprouted voluminous gold hair. Vincent reaches over and pokes what appears to be a shoulder. The lump mumbles something, and then a section of blanket shifts back to reveal a slightly glazed pair of turquoise eyes.
“I think he practiced,” Maion says. “With the Greeks.”
Vincent is not stupid enough to ask.
He doesn’t have to: Belial strolls out of the adjoined bathroom wearing a red silk smoking jacket and… a smirk. That appears to be all.
“Thank you for joining us,” he purrs.
“You’re sick,” Vincent says.
“No,” Belial says, “I’m uninhibited. There is a substantial difference.”
Maion peeks a little further out of the covers. “I am fairly sure you are also ill.”
“All right,” Belial says. “I’m sick and uninhibited. And horny.” He beams. “Demon. Horns. Get it?”
Vincent wonders if he can bang his head back against the bedframe with enough force to knock himself unconscious again.
“Are you feeling trepidatious, Vincent?” Maion asks, eyes huge again. His hands have also emerged from the duvet cocoon to pluck at the sheets.
“That’s one word for it,” Vincent said. “‘Murderously angry’ would also describe my emotional state.”
Maion looks crushed. “If I’d known you’d feel like that, I never would have let Belial sling you over his shoulder and slap your rear end appreciatively and then vanish all three of us in a plume of flame and then tie you up and take my clothes off and lick me in places I didn’t know tongues could g-”
Vincent finally manages to push words through the disbelieving horror. “Are you still drunk?”
“Perhaps,” Maion says. He nibbles on his bottom lip and thinks about it. “Most likely.”
“Well,” Belial says grandly, sitting down at the foot of the bed and smoothing his robe, “I think we just need to make him feel welcome, sweetheart.”
Maion worries his lip between his teeth a little more. Vincent is definitively not noticing how full and pink and wet that lip is. “You think so?”
“I know so,” Belial says warmly. “He’s just jealous that I got to have you all to myself.”
“Hold the motherfucking phone,” Vincent says.
Except then Maion-lump is moving, fast. And then Maion-no-longer-lump has seized the front of Vincent’s slacks and is impervious to frantic shooing hands and desperate yelps of “In the name of all that is holy, what are you doing?”
“You,” Belial says. “Obviously.”
Maion’s mouth is extremely hot, and there is no way that a presumably heretofore-celibate angel should be able to do things like that.
“Oh,” Vincent’s voice says. “Oh, my… God.”
“Close enough,” Belial says.
“You lying sack of sh… ohmyGod, where did you learn that?”
Maion is slightly too preoccupied to answer.
“If you don’t like it,” Belial says cheerfully, “just tell him to stop.”
Vincent hurls a soothing-sage-green pillow at him.
Some indistinguishable interval later, the door opens. Vincent drags himself far enough out of the exhausted post-orgasmic haze enough to raise his head and attempt to look.
Edward stares at the evidence of the threesome that just unfolded on his bed and screams like a little girl.