Inspiration

A/N: Written on commission (at Gaia) for SupahRen. The characters belong to Ren. I've just been ordered to play. Get in touch if you want to commission a story. Enjoy and please review!

It was entirely unfair, really. He'd been just about to start a new bit in his book when there had been frantic ringing of his doorbell. He'd opened it only to be bowled over by a bedraggled Belial, dressed as he often was in a bright blue dress that rather matched his eyes. The dress was soaked though and clung to his scrawny but obviously male form. Moran closed the door after Belial to keep the rain out. Really he shouldn't be surprised to find him here. It had been about the right time of day for Belial to be walking home from the flower shop when the storm had started. And since Moran's house was on the way between the flower shop and the house Belial shared with his older brother it was only natural that Belial would take refuge here.

But why did it have to be now? He'd been trying to write and having Belial curled up in a chair by the fire in his study was not helping. He wrung out his dress a bit but it was still clinging to him obscenely and now he was wringing out his longish, wavy blonde hair, darkened from being wet but still obviously a very bright, natural golden color. The problem with his wringing out his hair was that it had a tendency to stick to his elegant hands and slender wrists in the most fascinating way. Moran found his eyes dragged back to the sight again and again. It was ridiculous. Belial was being quiet as a mouse (a very unusual occurrence, mind) but he still couldn't write a damn thing.

After perhaps the half millionth time of catching Moran looking at him ( a look that he only wished meant Moran was the slightest bit interested in him and was not merely distracted by some motion he was making) Belial couldn't resist speaking. "'M sorry, Moran. 'M I bein' annoying? I could go in th'other room..." He suggested hesitantly. Not that he wanted to give up the other's company, such as it was, just that he wanted so very desperately to please him. His voice was soft but carried the distinctive hackneyed accent still. Moran's voice on the other hand, was deeper and had a crisp aristocratic British accent with none of the common vulgarities that distinguished Belial's speech.

"No!" He snapped, perhaps a little too harshly and he sighed. "I just can't write but that's nothing new right?" He let out a sharp bark of laughter and flung a nearby notebook across the room, the pages coming dangerously close to the hungry licking flames of the fire, not that there was anything written in the notebook worth saving anyway. He snapped his laptop with it's blank screen and placid, patient, mocking, blinking cursor closed and got up, striding over to the cabinet he kept liquor in. Against his better judgment he was going to have a drink around Belial, something he'd sworn not to do. But he really needed one. And just one couldn't hurt, right?

"You'll think of somthin'. You're jus' brill at writin'." The bright blue eyes, and his expression glowed with faith and admiration. It was the kind of expression you might see on the face of the devoutly faithful, like a nun or someone who'd just been 'saved.' Moran and his writing was Belial's religion. He could tell.

"Nothing. I haven't thought of anything. For weeks. Months. Nothing. I write but it's all shit. It's just fucking shit. My editor likes it... but it's stale, it's old, no new ideas. Not one. I'd be embarrassed to publish it..." He raised the tumbler to his mouth and took a gulp of the drink he'd poured, annoyed with himself. But more annoyed with Belial. It was so hard to write when thoughts of him, and the kid himself, kept finding ways to interrupt him.

He was annoyed to have snapped at his younger friend like that. He couldn't help it. He was so fucking disgusted with himself. He might have had sex with men before, something he was thoroughly ashamed of, but it was for a good cause, to get patrons to fund the damn books that usually consumed him. It didn't make him gay. He didn't like men. He certainly didn't like boys. But Belial was so tiny, lithe and more than half a foot smaller than himself. So, innocent-looking. He had absolutely huge blue eyes and bright blonde hair and he wore dresses, for gods sakes. You couldn't have made him look more innocent or feminine-looking if you tattooed it across his forehead.

"Maybe you just need some inspiration." Belial suggested, undaunted by the older man snapping at him. It didn't go unnoticed by him that Moran was having a drink in his presence for the first time in his memory even though Belial was under the impression he drank a lot otherwise.

"Right, inspiration." Moran made a grimace and swallowed down the rest of his drink. Not enough he decided and went back to the cabinet to pour another. "You want one? Maybe you could use it after being out in that bloody storm raging out there..."

Belial thought about shaking his head and refusing on the grounds that he wasn't old enough until it occurred to him that yet another of his own birthdays had passed without celebration while those of his brother and their dead younger sister passed with a great deal of fuss. He was old enough now, to drink if he wanted to. "Okay." He responded. "I don't really drink though, dunno if I'll like it." He watched Moran skillfully fix two more drinks and cleared his throat, dragging his eyes away. "You don't think you'll be able ta write if you have th' proper sort of inspiration?" He asked idly.

"Never needed inspiration before." Moran responded moodily, walking over to where Belial was still curled up in the chair and offered a drink to him. Belial took it, folding his elegant hands around it like it was a mug of cocoa and not gin and tonic. He sipped as cautiously, acting as though afraid it would be too hot. The scrunched, unhappy, nearly miserable look on his face as he swallowed it was almost too cute for words. "You don't like it, I take it?" Moran asked, setting himself down in the chair opposite him.

"No. It's awful!" Belial declared, setting it down on the stand, barely touched. "You've really never needed inspiration before?"

"No. Usually I'm consumed by the need to write. I have no bloody idea what sparked it. I just wrote. All the time. Now I can't. What would your suggestion for 'inspiration' be? No mumbo-jumbo, I hope."

"Maybe I could be your muse?" Belial asked innocently. Moran's mouth looked like it wanted to quirk into a smile but he stayed it by taking a drink from his glass.

"You know what you're supposed to do with muses, right?" He asked and immediately regretted it. He wasn't drunk enough. That was it. That must be the problem. That's why he was being all stupid. He finished off his second drink and started on Belial's unwanted one.

"No..." Belial looked vaguely worried as though the proper treatment for muses was to sacrifice them by fire or slow poison or something awful.

"You fuck them. That's where the inspiration comes from, right? But you obviously didn't know that." Moran had to look away from the keen longing in Belial's eyes. He took a drink to do so and consequently didn't notice the boy rise and take the couple steps to his chair. And then there was a far too light and still rather damp blond boy occupying his lap and that should not be at all exciting, damn it! He just hadn't had a lady-friend by in too long, that was all, so obsessed had he been with trying to write. It wasn't the undeniably warm bottom pressing into his groin. That wasn't it at all.

A delicate hand took the glass from his hand and set it down on the nearby stand before he dropped it, his fingers nerveless and slack as they were. "And if I still offered ta be your muse?" He asked, cocking his head to the side.

"Don't like boys." Moran said aloud, as much to himself as anything.

"'M not a boy. I turned eighteen a month ago."

"Don't like males, then." Moran corrected.

"Come'mon, Moran. I only want ta help you get some inspiration fer your writin'. I'd even keep my dress on and let you pretend 'm a girl if you want...." Since the day they'd met, Moran had found Belial's pretty innocent blue eyes as impossible to resist as the ironic quirk his mouth had made upon learning the boy's name. Belial, King of Demons, was a waif of a blonde boy with hair too long to allow him to look masculine and eyes too wide not to be innocent. Moran groaned softly and shielded his eyes with a hand.

"You're killing me." He announced but didn't resist when soft hands pried his larger hand away from his eyes, nor when softly lips hesitantly ghosted over his own. If anything it was like throwing a switch in his mind. He might regret it later but right now it was miserable outside, he had no better solutions as to inspiration, and he hadn't screwed anyone in far too long (by his standards anyway.) His hand fisted in the wavy blond hair at the back of the boy's head and forced his mouth closer, his own lips moving over Belial's, his tongue demanding entrance and possessing the younger male's mouth once it was granted.

He pulled away only when he needed to breathe, feasting his dull green eyes on prettily pink-flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips. He smirked at his handiwork. "Moran?" Belial asked hesitantly.

"Shut up." Moran snapped. He was going to regret this later. At the very least it would ruin their friendship. "Get up." He ordered and waited for Belial to comply willingly and take a couple steps back before he rose himself. "I'm not going to force you. Are you willing?" Belial was silent. "Oh- bloody hell! You can answer the bloody question."

"'M willin', Moran." Belial responded softly. Moran groaned faintly, he'd been hoping, vaguely, that Belial would refuse but he was just so... willing, and Moran was so horny.

"Show me." He said and took a deep, steadying breath. "Show me how willing. Go bend yourself over the arm of the couch." It was breathtakingly beautiful to watch the young slip of a boy comply to his request, bending at the waist, planing his hands on the cushions, the position displaying and offering up his ass so very well. Moran went and rummaged in one of his desk drawers, coming up with a condom and lube. This wouldn't be the first time he'd had hot, steamy sex in his office.

He walked back over to him. If Belial had been a girl... he would have fucked him in a heartbeat. But then he might not have known how sweet he could be. How funny and quirky. He rested the two objects on the slender back, freeing up his hands to run them over his delicious bottom, cupping the globes in his hands. Like this, it was hard to tell the figure bent over the arm of his couch wasn't a girl. From the back you couldn't touch anything to give it away. No flat chest with little boy-nipples or a swell of hardness in place of soft, slick folds.

"Think you'll inspire me to write a whole new book, Callilope?" Moran murmured against his neck as he hiked up the skirt of the dress, bunching it up around his waist. This time when he touched his bottom he encountered bare skin. "No underwear?" Somehow, he wasn't surprised. "Now that's just naughty. Didn't your mother ever tell you to always wear underwear with your dresses. My mother told my sister that. 'Why?' My sister asked. My mother got rather flustered, as I recall. 'In case it's windy.' She said finally. Maybe... she really meant so that nobody takes advantage of you..." Belial seemed quite mesmerized by the hands on his soft skin and the voice speaking to him, low and teasing and needy at the same time.

Moran couldn't resist. He smacked one pale globe of flesh just to see what would happen. Belial cried out, in pain or pleasure, Moran couldn't really care, the tone of the cry was too delicious, and the abused flesh flushed with color. "I'm sorry." He murmured. "I'll kiss it better." He crouched down and softly kissed and nuzzled the flesh. He reached up and retrieved the little bottle of KY jelly. He opened it and spread some on his fingers. He hastily pressed two inside Belial's entrance, earning himself another sumptuous, all-too-arousing cry. He knew the basics of intercourse between two men. Enough to know to scissor his fingers as he moved them in and out, fucking him with his fingers. When the tight ring of muscle felt a little looser he added a third finger and moved all three of them inside the younger male in order to prepare him.

At this point he was getting rather impatient. "There. That ought to do it." He decided after a bit and rose from his crouch. He undid the fastenings of his pants and freed his erection from it's confines, rolling the condom over it with the ease of long practice and adding copious lubricant to the outside of it before he gripped one of Belial's hips with one hand and used the other to guide himself inside the boy. One thing could be said for sex with men, he decided as he pushed inside him. They were, on the whole, way tighter than most females.

He found himself desperate and moaning right away. He didn't pause to let the other adjust but started thrusting right away. Though it disturbed him to remind himself that he was currently fucking a boy he couldn't stop his hands from roaming over him, playing with his nipples through the thin cloth of his dress and fondling his cock just to get him to cry out. He enjoyed each moan he forced from the body below him and when he did something (though he couldn't, at the time, figure out what) that changed the pitch of his moans and had him thrusting back against him. It was a sexual pleasure unto itself.

He was almost surprised when, shortly after, he began stroking the boy to wring cries from him, his hand was covered with wetness in just a few strokes and the most amazing thing happened. The sheathe around him spasmed and tightened and loosened and tightened and so on as the boy rode out his orgasm. It was enough to have him coming hard. Far harder than he'd expected, considering the unsavory act they'd committed.

"I'm sorry, Belial." He whispered as he pulled out, causing the boy to whimper.

It was later he realized that he was not at all sorry. Later in bed Belial showed him that he shouldn't be the least bit sorry even though he'd obviously hurt the small, waif of a boy. And a few weeks later, he wasn't sorry. Ironically enough, he got his 'muse' back and began writing again. It was, arguably, his best book yet. But he found himself unaccountably addicted to committing acts of sodomy with his young friend and found himself giving in again and again. Unions that eventually led to care and love. Or something like that. They were still rather sorting it out. Belial still threw things at him rather too often for comfort. But at least now they weren't expensive things.