Original -- Tell Me I'm a Bad, Bad, Bad, Bad Man
Title: Tell Me I'm a Bad, Bad, Bad, Bad Man
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,666
Warnings: language; it's slashtastic! (…these were here when I copy-pasted the header! XD); what is historical accuracy lololololol; mild blasphemy
Prompt: Belial in seduction mode
Summary: It is the best of times, it is the worst of times; Belial has a new pet, his new pet is a giant pain in the ass.
Author's Note: A very late holiday gift for 1_rhiannon_1!! ♥♥♥ Title is from House of Wolves, which… well, when the novel someday becomes a runaway bestseller, and they make an Oscar-winning movie adaptation, this is the song that'll play in the trailer. XD
TELL ME I’M A BAD, BAD, BAD, BAD MAN
Belial hopes Prohibition never ends. There are very few experiences in the world simpler and more pleasurable than watching a falling-down-drunk Chicagoan trying to stagger along the street in the wind without anyone noticing his intoxication. It generally ends in tears. And in the gutter. And Belial’s vast vocabulary, which pre-dates life on Earth, lacks the words to describe the schadenfreude.
Belial does hope this night ends in a goddamn hurry. (Everything he hopes for is, by definition, pretty goddamned, but that’s a different problem.) It’s not even eleven, and he’s already bored out of his currently-manifesting-hominoid skull. He’s seduced and corrupted and generally ruined every last one of his regulars-most of the attractive ones several times each-and he has now officially sampled every single available kind of moonshine, run rum, and cabinet-fermented wine that he serves. Prohibition itself, conceptually, is still magnificent, of course; nothing breeds vice quite like restrictive legislation… but the day-to-day, hour-to-hour, minute-to-minute of watching the same sad sacks of meat ghost in and pick their poisons is getting a bit dull.
At least, it’s dull up until the moment something new strolls in.
The new thing is windswept and lit from within its too-ivory skin by a fascinating old-world glow. Oh, yes, Belial will play the moth to that flame tonight; and then he will turn the tables and watch this little marvel’s wings burn to ash.
The man is fairly tall and looks taller because he holds his spine and his shoulders very straight; he doesn’t walk so much as stride up to the bar, but it’s a habit born of cultivated grace, not of arrogance. He wears his dark hair long and ties it back into a tail at the nape of his neck. His neck, incidentally, looks delicious.
This is going to be so much fun.
Belial loosens the knot of his violet tie with a practiced hand and swipes a rag in slow circles across the countertop. As Tall, Dark, and Haughty settles smoothly on a barstool and primly folds his hands, Belial offers him a slow-burning grin. “What can I do you for, my friend?”
“You are my final hope in this city,” Tall-Dark-Haughty says-dryly, which is hilarious. “Please tell me you have wine. And I mean wine from Europe, not some grape mush that turned to vinegar in the back of a low-grade lawbreaker’s pantry.”
“A man of discerning tastes,” Belial says, pausing in the unnecessary counter-wiping to look him up and down.
“Something like that,” Tall-Dark-Haughty says. “Can I take that as a ‘yes’, or shall I start stockpiling water and praying for the Second Coming?”
Let’s not, Belial thinks. “Take it as a ‘yes’,” he says. “Hold that happy thought.”
Sometimes honesty is fun for a change, anyway, and he wasn’t really planning to finish off that Bordeaux by his lonesome-drinking solitarily is a sign of addiction, after all. He holds up one finger to request patience, saunters into the back room with this manifestation’s well-shaped ass swinging, retrieves the bottle from his personal stash, cradles it in both hands as he returns, and tilts the label towards his prey.
The dark blue eyes widen slightly; the Adam’s apple jolts; the narrow eyebrows cinch in towards each other and momentarily lose their sardonic arch. The black leather gloves are drawn off of long, slim, pale fingers, which splay out on the top of the bar.
“Ah,” Tall-Dark-Haughty-and-Thirsty says. “How much am I going to have to pay for a taste of civilization?”
Hook, line, sinker. Soon they get to the flaying and the gutting and the feast.
Belial smiles warmly and winks. The seal’s already broken from his previous indulgence; it’s the work of moments to tug the cork free, sling a glass onto the bar, and pour. “On the house for the gentleman’s name,” he says, watching the subtle shifts of the white face through his eyelashes. “Just stick around a while. We don’t get too many out-of-towners.”
The man hesitates (the eyebrows dip, and the edges of his mouth twitch), but his fingertips are already settling on the belly of the glass. The flicker of surrender in those eyes- “Vincent Duval.”
Belial would bring down empires for more of that-for all of that. Belial is the master, the king, the maker of wrongs, of sins, of wanting what shouldn’t be craved; and he has rarely wanted something as ferociously as he wants this man’s lovely throat.
“Enchanté,” he says, leaning in closer than necessary to offer his hand. “I’m Ben.”
Vincent gives a firm handshake, to which Belial contributes prolonged eye contact and a meaningful squeeze. This, too, the dark blue eyes acknowledge and file away. It’s been far too long since Belial had a worthy opponent for this game.
“Don’t let me hold you up,” he says, gesturing to the wineglass. “Enjoy.”
And oh, good hells, watching all five of Vincent’s senses narrow in to a few spare ounces of dark liquid-he doesn’t drink it so much as drink it in; it’s the thing doing the consuming. It’s strange to see a human being slowing almost to a standstill just to appreciate something-so often the little bastards are in a tearing hurry to race to the ends of their pathetic, abbreviated lives. This century is aimed ineluctably towards mass-production; quantity is going to win out over quality once and for all. For this one brief moment, however, Vincent Duval is using every cell of a mortal body to cherish excellence. It’s like an act of worship.
Belial wants him badly. He wants that sharp, thorough attentiveness fixed on him.
He leans against the counter and folds his arms; the low light will make his dark eyes gleam carnelian. “How long are you going to be in town?”
“Just through tomorrow night,” Vincent says. This is a smart man, a clever man, a planner and a calculator, but he belongs the wine now, and he isn’t thinking about what he’s saying. “With all due respect, I don’t think the city particularly likes me, and the feeling is mutual.”
“She’s just skyline and pavement,” Belial says. “All you have to do is put her in her place.”
The way the wineglass presses Vincent’s lip is making Belial’s insides claw themselves to pieces. “That’s an interesting perspective.”
Belial grins. “That’s a diplomatic way of telling me you think I’m sick.”
“‘Sick’ is too harsh a word.” Vincent sips, sips again; his eyelids sink as the simple pleasure weights them. “‘Twisted’, perhaps. Forgive the preemptive judgment; I should know better than that.”
“By all means,” Belial says, grinning wider. “Judge me.”
Oh, Lord of Darkness, Belial is waxing poetic in his head-Vincent’s eyes are cobalt crescents shadowed by the thick fringe of his eyelashes; one slender brow arches again. He is sardonic wit personified, and Belial wants to wrap him up in oil-black tendrils so tight that he suffocates.
Vincent’s smile thins and tilts. “It’s safer to do silently, believe me.”
“I suppose,” Belial says. “But what’s the point in having liberties if you don’t take them?”
“I always assumed the point of this country was offering a thousand freedoms no one needs,” Vincent says. “And then restricting the one luxury I indulge, of course; even if I hadn’t been following the war over the legislation, I wouldn’t have been surprised.”
“Born abroad, then?” Belial asks. “I suspected-you have a certain…” He purses his lips and fingers the tail of his tie.
“Obvious European snobbery?” Vincent supplies idly.
“Charm,” Belial says, unable to help being slightly put out that the object of the compliment just trod all over it. “No one would say I’m not a patriot, Monsieur, but there’s a kind of… sophistication… that only comes from overseas.” He lowers his voice. “Something deep-something in the blood.”
Vincent looks inordinately amused, which is irritating. “You don’t say.”
Belial refills the wineglass before he can ask. “I suppose I tend to say too much. And to ask too much, and to want more than I… well.”
“No, go on,” Vincent says, watching him with those cautious predator’s eyes. “I can’t stand people who deliberately don’t finish their sentences.”
Belial hates him. Which of course makes Belial want him more. He casts his eyes to the countertop and wipes at an imaginary blemish. “I’m sorry. It’s only that… it’s as you said. There are so many freedoms, so many avenues, and yet…” He raises his gaze slowly to catch Vincent’s, hold it, and set in the smolder. “What I crave, I cannot have.”
That’s a bald-faced lie, obviously; he’s had ninety-eight percent of the men in here, even though the vast majority of them are married, and the vast majority of those are genuinely heterosexual. It doesn’t make much difference, in the end: enough concentrated heat makes anybody flush, and then he owns them forever. The distinction that they fail to make is that it’s not the fellatio and the sodomy and the various things that don’t even have fancy Latin names to them-it’s the lust that damns them. It’s the lies, and the shame, and the compensating anger. That’s the beauty of it, really; they don’t even understand the nature of the sin. As if the J-man would give a fuck about fucking, let alone about the particular combinations of genitalia involved. If Dickhead in the Sky hadn’t wanted his little lambsies to have riotous sex all the time, He wouldn’t have made it so stupidly fun, now, would He?
…then again, Belial failed Advanced Morality back in the day. He’s just too pragmatic for his own Good.
Vincent is giving him an unimpressed look, which is an outrage, because Belial is the most impressive thing since… well, Lucifer, really.
“I don’t do relationships,” Vincent says.
Bewilderment makes Belial’s voice tangle up in his throat, and it emerges as: “Beg… pardon?”
“I am not interested in establishing a personal connection of any kind with you,” Vincent says. “I do not engage in friendships, romances, or one-night stands. I do not keep pen-pals. I do not value human interaction. As a general rule, I find people repulsive, ignorant, and obtrusive; and unnecessary dealings with them are a tremendous waste of time.”
Great. Now Belial is kind of in love with the cute little fucker.
“We don’t have to develop a meaningful personal connection to have torrid sex out back,” he says.
Vincent blinks. Then he raises one eyebrow very, very slowly.
“C’mon,” Belial says, leaning closer and angling his wickedest grin. “I promise you’d enjoy it. Just ask… pretty much anyone in this reputable establishment.”
“That confirms my heretofore unfair suspicion that you’re most likely diseased,” Vincent says.
“I assure you,” Belial replies, “I am not.”
Vincent registers the absolute and un-bullshittable confidence but remains distressingly unperturbed.
“I’m not interested,” he says.
“What do you mean, you’re not interested?” Belial asks. “Of course you’re interested.”
Vincent’s amusement is more infuriating than any objections could have been. “I assure you,” he says, “I’m not.”
Oh, two can play at this game-but only one can win.
Belial gives the bastard a long, critical look, followed by a longer, hotter one. He tilts his hips, curls his hand around the right one, and cocks his elbow at a mathematically enticing angle that draws the eyes inward along his arm. He lowers his chin just enough to peek through his eyelashes, and then he swipes his tongue slowly across his upper lip.
Vincent… folds his arms and frowns.
“You’re obnoxious,” Belial says.
“You noticed,” Vincent says.
Belial leans forward and smirks. “I like that in a man.”
Vincent draws the last sip from his wineglass, sets it down, and adjusts it on the bar. “You must have a death wish.”
“I suppose I would,” Belial says. He gives it a dramatic pause and then plays the trump card with a flourish. “Except that… I can’t die.”
Something flicks brightly and then vanishes from Vincent’s eyes-and it’s definitely not the awed fascination that Belial banks on earning with that line. What the hell is wrong with this stupid bag of bones?
“That must be very convenient,” Vincent says.
Belial could scream. Belial could throw things. Belial could raze Constantinople.
“You,” he says, “you are not any fun at all.”
“I get that a lot,” Vincent says. “It’s a bit uncharitable, don’t you think?”
“No,” Belial says. “Where in the name of all that’s holy-” And all that’s very much not, of course. “-do you live? How can you possibly be bored in a speakeasy run by a demon?”
That-that, at last-rouses a raised eyebrow. “How remarkable,” Vincent says. “I didn’t realize hell was so desperate for revenue.”
Belial stares at him.
Vincent blinks back.
“I’m serious,” Belial says. “I’m a demon. I’m a fucking Knight of Hell. What about this does not intimidate you and make you fear for your immortal soul?”
Vincent smiles thinly.
Then he raises a fingertip and pushes up his lip, revealing an exquisitely pointy white fang.
“Oh, my Satan,” Belial says. “I couldn’t smell it on you. That is magnificent cologne. You must be on a diet; your aura’s practically virtuous.”
“I try to be on my best behavior when I travel,” Vincent says, and it’s subtle, but he’s warier now than he was before. At least that’s a tiny bit flattering. “If you don’t mind my asking, how many of you are there wandering the streets and starting businesses?”
“We are many,” Belial says. It’s in the script, but since they’re expected not to follow the script-being deviants and all-sometimes he likes to go back to it as a sort of reverse-psychological disobedience.
“I understand,” Vincent says lightly. “The employment numbers are above your pay grade.”
Belial is going to roast him on a spit and eat his ears first. Ears get nice and crispy.
“I am not going to dignify that effrontery with a reply,” he says. “Certainly not to a romanticized mosquito.”
“That wounds me deeply,” Vincent says disinterestedly.
“I would gouge out your lungs without a second thought,” Belial says.
“And yet,” Vincent says, “you haven’t.”
Belial scowls. “I’m getting a bit lenient in my antiquity.” That’s not quite enough. “…you pathetic little leech.” Better.
Vincent rolls his lovely eyes and slides off of the barstool to stand. “Thank you for the wine.”
What? Leaving? When they’re only just getting to the part where Belial coaxes him out back and pins him to the rough brick of the alley wall and kisses him wet and hot and dirty until they’ve punctured both their tongues?
“Wait!” Belial says. “At least take my card.”
Vincent pauses. “Your… card. I didn’t realize hell was also desperate for advertisi-”
“Shut your filthy whore mouth,” Belial says. “Here.”
He takes up one of the flimsy cardboard coasters that molder on the shelf waiting for a conscientious barman who will never come, rips it in half, and burns a few important words into it with a fingertip.
Vincent takes between in two careful fingers-accepting out of curiosity alone, perhaps, but any fool with a fruit tree can tell you that’s enough.
“‘Belial,’” he reads, “‘Esq., Premier Knight of Hell’.” He squints at the small print in the low ambient light. “…‘you fucker’.”
Belial beams.
“How poetic,” Vincent says, eyeing him again and tucking the card gingerly into a pocket. “Forgive me for not returning the favor.”
“That’s quite all right,” Belial says brightly. “I’ll find you.”
For the first time since he walked in, Vincent has the grace to look a little terrified.
Belial watches his ass all the way out the door.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,666
Warnings: language; it's slashtastic! (…these were here when I copy-pasted the header! XD); what is historical accuracy lololololol; mild blasphemy
Prompt: Belial in seduction mode
Summary: It is the best of times, it is the worst of times; Belial has a new pet, his new pet is a giant pain in the ass.
Author's Note: A very late holiday gift for 1_rhiannon_1!! ♥♥♥ Title is from House of Wolves, which… well, when the novel someday becomes a runaway bestseller, and they make an Oscar-winning movie adaptation, this is the song that'll play in the trailer. XD
TELL ME I’M A BAD, BAD, BAD, BAD MAN
Belial hopes Prohibition never ends. There are very few experiences in the world simpler and more pleasurable than watching a falling-down-drunk Chicagoan trying to stagger along the street in the wind without anyone noticing his intoxication. It generally ends in tears. And in the gutter. And Belial’s vast vocabulary, which pre-dates life on Earth, lacks the words to describe the schadenfreude.
Belial does hope this night ends in a goddamn hurry. (Everything he hopes for is, by definition, pretty goddamned, but that’s a different problem.) It’s not even eleven, and he’s already bored out of his currently-manifesting-hominoid skull. He’s seduced and corrupted and generally ruined every last one of his regulars-most of the attractive ones several times each-and he has now officially sampled every single available kind of moonshine, run rum, and cabinet-fermented wine that he serves. Prohibition itself, conceptually, is still magnificent, of course; nothing breeds vice quite like restrictive legislation… but the day-to-day, hour-to-hour, minute-to-minute of watching the same sad sacks of meat ghost in and pick their poisons is getting a bit dull.
At least, it’s dull up until the moment something new strolls in.
The new thing is windswept and lit from within its too-ivory skin by a fascinating old-world glow. Oh, yes, Belial will play the moth to that flame tonight; and then he will turn the tables and watch this little marvel’s wings burn to ash.
The man is fairly tall and looks taller because he holds his spine and his shoulders very straight; he doesn’t walk so much as stride up to the bar, but it’s a habit born of cultivated grace, not of arrogance. He wears his dark hair long and ties it back into a tail at the nape of his neck. His neck, incidentally, looks delicious.
This is going to be so much fun.
Belial loosens the knot of his violet tie with a practiced hand and swipes a rag in slow circles across the countertop. As Tall, Dark, and Haughty settles smoothly on a barstool and primly folds his hands, Belial offers him a slow-burning grin. “What can I do you for, my friend?”
“You are my final hope in this city,” Tall-Dark-Haughty says-dryly, which is hilarious. “Please tell me you have wine. And I mean wine from Europe, not some grape mush that turned to vinegar in the back of a low-grade lawbreaker’s pantry.”
“A man of discerning tastes,” Belial says, pausing in the unnecessary counter-wiping to look him up and down.
“Something like that,” Tall-Dark-Haughty says. “Can I take that as a ‘yes’, or shall I start stockpiling water and praying for the Second Coming?”
Let’s not, Belial thinks. “Take it as a ‘yes’,” he says. “Hold that happy thought.”
Sometimes honesty is fun for a change, anyway, and he wasn’t really planning to finish off that Bordeaux by his lonesome-drinking solitarily is a sign of addiction, after all. He holds up one finger to request patience, saunters into the back room with this manifestation’s well-shaped ass swinging, retrieves the bottle from his personal stash, cradles it in both hands as he returns, and tilts the label towards his prey.
The dark blue eyes widen slightly; the Adam’s apple jolts; the narrow eyebrows cinch in towards each other and momentarily lose their sardonic arch. The black leather gloves are drawn off of long, slim, pale fingers, which splay out on the top of the bar.
“Ah,” Tall-Dark-Haughty-and-Thirsty says. “How much am I going to have to pay for a taste of civilization?”
Hook, line, sinker. Soon they get to the flaying and the gutting and the feast.
Belial smiles warmly and winks. The seal’s already broken from his previous indulgence; it’s the work of moments to tug the cork free, sling a glass onto the bar, and pour. “On the house for the gentleman’s name,” he says, watching the subtle shifts of the white face through his eyelashes. “Just stick around a while. We don’t get too many out-of-towners.”
The man hesitates (the eyebrows dip, and the edges of his mouth twitch), but his fingertips are already settling on the belly of the glass. The flicker of surrender in those eyes- “Vincent Duval.”
Belial would bring down empires for more of that-for all of that. Belial is the master, the king, the maker of wrongs, of sins, of wanting what shouldn’t be craved; and he has rarely wanted something as ferociously as he wants this man’s lovely throat.
“Enchanté,” he says, leaning in closer than necessary to offer his hand. “I’m Ben.”
Vincent gives a firm handshake, to which Belial contributes prolonged eye contact and a meaningful squeeze. This, too, the dark blue eyes acknowledge and file away. It’s been far too long since Belial had a worthy opponent for this game.
“Don’t let me hold you up,” he says, gesturing to the wineglass. “Enjoy.”
And oh, good hells, watching all five of Vincent’s senses narrow in to a few spare ounces of dark liquid-he doesn’t drink it so much as drink it in; it’s the thing doing the consuming. It’s strange to see a human being slowing almost to a standstill just to appreciate something-so often the little bastards are in a tearing hurry to race to the ends of their pathetic, abbreviated lives. This century is aimed ineluctably towards mass-production; quantity is going to win out over quality once and for all. For this one brief moment, however, Vincent Duval is using every cell of a mortal body to cherish excellence. It’s like an act of worship.
Belial wants him badly. He wants that sharp, thorough attentiveness fixed on him.
He leans against the counter and folds his arms; the low light will make his dark eyes gleam carnelian. “How long are you going to be in town?”
“Just through tomorrow night,” Vincent says. This is a smart man, a clever man, a planner and a calculator, but he belongs the wine now, and he isn’t thinking about what he’s saying. “With all due respect, I don’t think the city particularly likes me, and the feeling is mutual.”
“She’s just skyline and pavement,” Belial says. “All you have to do is put her in her place.”
The way the wineglass presses Vincent’s lip is making Belial’s insides claw themselves to pieces. “That’s an interesting perspective.”
Belial grins. “That’s a diplomatic way of telling me you think I’m sick.”
“‘Sick’ is too harsh a word.” Vincent sips, sips again; his eyelids sink as the simple pleasure weights them. “‘Twisted’, perhaps. Forgive the preemptive judgment; I should know better than that.”
“By all means,” Belial says, grinning wider. “Judge me.”
Oh, Lord of Darkness, Belial is waxing poetic in his head-Vincent’s eyes are cobalt crescents shadowed by the thick fringe of his eyelashes; one slender brow arches again. He is sardonic wit personified, and Belial wants to wrap him up in oil-black tendrils so tight that he suffocates.
Vincent’s smile thins and tilts. “It’s safer to do silently, believe me.”
“I suppose,” Belial says. “But what’s the point in having liberties if you don’t take them?”
“I always assumed the point of this country was offering a thousand freedoms no one needs,” Vincent says. “And then restricting the one luxury I indulge, of course; even if I hadn’t been following the war over the legislation, I wouldn’t have been surprised.”
“Born abroad, then?” Belial asks. “I suspected-you have a certain…” He purses his lips and fingers the tail of his tie.
“Obvious European snobbery?” Vincent supplies idly.
“Charm,” Belial says, unable to help being slightly put out that the object of the compliment just trod all over it. “No one would say I’m not a patriot, Monsieur, but there’s a kind of… sophistication… that only comes from overseas.” He lowers his voice. “Something deep-something in the blood.”
Vincent looks inordinately amused, which is irritating. “You don’t say.”
Belial refills the wineglass before he can ask. “I suppose I tend to say too much. And to ask too much, and to want more than I… well.”
“No, go on,” Vincent says, watching him with those cautious predator’s eyes. “I can’t stand people who deliberately don’t finish their sentences.”
Belial hates him. Which of course makes Belial want him more. He casts his eyes to the countertop and wipes at an imaginary blemish. “I’m sorry. It’s only that… it’s as you said. There are so many freedoms, so many avenues, and yet…” He raises his gaze slowly to catch Vincent’s, hold it, and set in the smolder. “What I crave, I cannot have.”
That’s a bald-faced lie, obviously; he’s had ninety-eight percent of the men in here, even though the vast majority of them are married, and the vast majority of those are genuinely heterosexual. It doesn’t make much difference, in the end: enough concentrated heat makes anybody flush, and then he owns them forever. The distinction that they fail to make is that it’s not the fellatio and the sodomy and the various things that don’t even have fancy Latin names to them-it’s the lust that damns them. It’s the lies, and the shame, and the compensating anger. That’s the beauty of it, really; they don’t even understand the nature of the sin. As if the J-man would give a fuck about fucking, let alone about the particular combinations of genitalia involved. If Dickhead in the Sky hadn’t wanted his little lambsies to have riotous sex all the time, He wouldn’t have made it so stupidly fun, now, would He?
…then again, Belial failed Advanced Morality back in the day. He’s just too pragmatic for his own Good.
Vincent is giving him an unimpressed look, which is an outrage, because Belial is the most impressive thing since… well, Lucifer, really.
“I don’t do relationships,” Vincent says.
Bewilderment makes Belial’s voice tangle up in his throat, and it emerges as: “Beg… pardon?”
“I am not interested in establishing a personal connection of any kind with you,” Vincent says. “I do not engage in friendships, romances, or one-night stands. I do not keep pen-pals. I do not value human interaction. As a general rule, I find people repulsive, ignorant, and obtrusive; and unnecessary dealings with them are a tremendous waste of time.”
Great. Now Belial is kind of in love with the cute little fucker.
“We don’t have to develop a meaningful personal connection to have torrid sex out back,” he says.
Vincent blinks. Then he raises one eyebrow very, very slowly.
“C’mon,” Belial says, leaning closer and angling his wickedest grin. “I promise you’d enjoy it. Just ask… pretty much anyone in this reputable establishment.”
“That confirms my heretofore unfair suspicion that you’re most likely diseased,” Vincent says.
“I assure you,” Belial replies, “I am not.”
Vincent registers the absolute and un-bullshittable confidence but remains distressingly unperturbed.
“I’m not interested,” he says.
“What do you mean, you’re not interested?” Belial asks. “Of course you’re interested.”
Vincent’s amusement is more infuriating than any objections could have been. “I assure you,” he says, “I’m not.”
Oh, two can play at this game-but only one can win.
Belial gives the bastard a long, critical look, followed by a longer, hotter one. He tilts his hips, curls his hand around the right one, and cocks his elbow at a mathematically enticing angle that draws the eyes inward along his arm. He lowers his chin just enough to peek through his eyelashes, and then he swipes his tongue slowly across his upper lip.
Vincent… folds his arms and frowns.
“You’re obnoxious,” Belial says.
“You noticed,” Vincent says.
Belial leans forward and smirks. “I like that in a man.”
Vincent draws the last sip from his wineglass, sets it down, and adjusts it on the bar. “You must have a death wish.”
“I suppose I would,” Belial says. He gives it a dramatic pause and then plays the trump card with a flourish. “Except that… I can’t die.”
Something flicks brightly and then vanishes from Vincent’s eyes-and it’s definitely not the awed fascination that Belial banks on earning with that line. What the hell is wrong with this stupid bag of bones?
“That must be very convenient,” Vincent says.
Belial could scream. Belial could throw things. Belial could raze Constantinople.
“You,” he says, “you are not any fun at all.”
“I get that a lot,” Vincent says. “It’s a bit uncharitable, don’t you think?”
“No,” Belial says. “Where in the name of all that’s holy-” And all that’s very much not, of course. “-do you live? How can you possibly be bored in a speakeasy run by a demon?”
That-that, at last-rouses a raised eyebrow. “How remarkable,” Vincent says. “I didn’t realize hell was so desperate for revenue.”
Belial stares at him.
Vincent blinks back.
“I’m serious,” Belial says. “I’m a demon. I’m a fucking Knight of Hell. What about this does not intimidate you and make you fear for your immortal soul?”
Vincent smiles thinly.
Then he raises a fingertip and pushes up his lip, revealing an exquisitely pointy white fang.
“Oh, my Satan,” Belial says. “I couldn’t smell it on you. That is magnificent cologne. You must be on a diet; your aura’s practically virtuous.”
“I try to be on my best behavior when I travel,” Vincent says, and it’s subtle, but he’s warier now than he was before. At least that’s a tiny bit flattering. “If you don’t mind my asking, how many of you are there wandering the streets and starting businesses?”
“We are many,” Belial says. It’s in the script, but since they’re expected not to follow the script-being deviants and all-sometimes he likes to go back to it as a sort of reverse-psychological disobedience.
“I understand,” Vincent says lightly. “The employment numbers are above your pay grade.”
Belial is going to roast him on a spit and eat his ears first. Ears get nice and crispy.
“I am not going to dignify that effrontery with a reply,” he says. “Certainly not to a romanticized mosquito.”
“That wounds me deeply,” Vincent says disinterestedly.
“I would gouge out your lungs without a second thought,” Belial says.
“And yet,” Vincent says, “you haven’t.”
Belial scowls. “I’m getting a bit lenient in my antiquity.” That’s not quite enough. “…you pathetic little leech.” Better.
Vincent rolls his lovely eyes and slides off of the barstool to stand. “Thank you for the wine.”
What? Leaving? When they’re only just getting to the part where Belial coaxes him out back and pins him to the rough brick of the alley wall and kisses him wet and hot and dirty until they’ve punctured both their tongues?
“Wait!” Belial says. “At least take my card.”
Vincent pauses. “Your… card. I didn’t realize hell was also desperate for advertisi-”
“Shut your filthy whore mouth,” Belial says. “Here.”
He takes up one of the flimsy cardboard coasters that molder on the shelf waiting for a conscientious barman who will never come, rips it in half, and burns a few important words into it with a fingertip.
Vincent takes between in two careful fingers-accepting out of curiosity alone, perhaps, but any fool with a fruit tree can tell you that’s enough.
“‘Belial,’” he reads, “‘Esq., Premier Knight of Hell’.” He squints at the small print in the low ambient light. “…‘you fucker’.”
Belial beams.
“How poetic,” Vincent says, eyeing him again and tucking the card gingerly into a pocket. “Forgive me for not returning the favor.”
“That’s quite all right,” Belial says brightly. “I’ll find you.”
For the first time since he walked in, Vincent has the grace to look a little terrified.
Belial watches his ass all the way out the door.