Finally, I get some SB written. It's just a quick ~400-word thing, though, but it's on the same path that I'm thinking of basing a lot of similar pieces on, so maybe I'll make it a series-ish thing.
"What the hell am I to you?" It wasn't a question that often weighed on Squalo's mind—he hadn't really considered this to be much to ponder—but when he had glanced over at the boy, doubled up, panting, his usual grin disfigured into something more feral thanks to the blood spilt, he had felt a familiar twinge of being used. He'd learned that feeling from years of knowing Xanxus, a man who used everyone and was used by no one, but he'd never expected it from a sixteen-year-old boy.
Maybe age shouldn't have been a factor in his thoughts on the self-proclaimed prince; it seemed a fluid enough concept in the mafia in general, and the Varia were even more removed from societal standards than the rest of organized crime. And really, Belphegor had his moments, his moments of seeming childish and just a teenager who still acted too young for his age, but also his moments when he seemed years older than any of them. Sometimes it was hard to remember he was just sixteen years old, and maybe that was why it was so easy to give in to his demands, every single time, no matter how much Squalo told himself this was the last time. But this time, with that twinge of that feeling, that sensation of being shamelessly used, it might really be the last time. It would be easier to talk himself out of it, this way—he let Xanxus use him as a tool because he had sworn his loyalty to Xanxus, but Belphegor had gotten no such promise.
At the question, there was a small intake of breath, almost as if the prince had stopped breathing for a moment in his pain- and blood-induced rapture. His body, bruised and broken, shifted slightly, and at first that was the only acknowledgement. Another pronounced breath, almost rattling—it wouldn't be surprising if a few ribs were broken, after all that—and finally his head raised just enough to look in Squalo's direction, with eyes the shark could only assume went anywhere near him. Belphegor's expression had gone to neutral—human neutral, as opposed to his self-established neutral of a ridiculous grin—and he said flatly, and yet for all the world as if he were a prince giving orders to a common peasant, "Get that scowl off your face. If you don't want to know the answer to a question, don't ask it."