This blog is gonna be full of all the nasty shit I’ve written. It gets baaaad sometimes. Some fanfic, some original stuff, most of it probably unfinished.
Just needed a place to dump it. Don’t copy/steal/feed to a robot.
Top reader, but no genital descriptions, GN reader. Violence, revenge sex, implied forced orgasm. Reader is described to be somewhat larger than Belphie(the wiki can eat my ass, he’s 5’3”). Spoilers for Lesson 16 but who honestly gaf.
[WARNING]: Though only imagined by the narrator, contains relatively graphic depiction of nonconsensual, violent sex.
Summary: Belphegor is angry, so angry in fact that he’s currently murdering you. Luckily you have other things on your mind to distract you.
It occurred to me how much it bothered me that demons were so strong. Not necessarily because they could hurt me, but because I couldn’t hurt them. I couldn’t break their bones, I couldn’t tear their skin, couldn’t pull their guts out or remove their limbs. But at least in my head, where reality hardly mattered, demons were as harmless as any human. Sometimes weaker, just to make things easier.
As Belphagor’s hand crushed my windpipe, all I could picture was what he’d look like with his skinny legs hiked up against his chest, screaming. Tears pouring down his face, magenta eyes sparkling with them, his soft little mouth gasping pleas for forgiveness, for mercy.
My vision began to spot, the physical world dissolving into meaningless and indiscernible shapes and colors.
“—” the real Belphegor snarled, but I couldn’t hear him.
“Stop, please, it’s too much! I’m sorry, I didn’t—ahh…!” The Belphegor in my mind cried out.
I would press my entire weight down on his smaller body, his knees pressed on either side of his head. It’s alright if he isn’t flexible enough for the position. I’d make it work. He’d bend because I’d make him bend. It would be easy. The tension would make his entire body go taut with pain. The hands that were now wrapped tight around my throat would push uselessly at my chest, too weak, too soft to stop me.
Blephegor was talking still. Monologing, no doubt. There wasn’t any point in trying to listen; I’d rather enjoy my pleasant little fantasies and the taste of blood in the back of my throat than hear him whine.
“I hate you.”
“Un— ah, I—I ha-hate you… Mng…!”
Whining… high-pitched and broken as his body seized beneath me. The litany of pointless protests would never cease, just fluctuate in strength and volume, climbing higher when the pain became blinding and getting lost among pathetic, resigned sobs when it cooled to a brutal ache. No matter what form they came in, they would just add fuel to my arousal— all that venom reduced to this childishly sloppy tantrum. My body twitched as it made a reflexive attempt to force air in or out of my lungs. Nothing. I heard Belphegor laugh, his face drawing close to mine. All I could make out was the sharp white of his toothy smile.
I relish the thought of his face red with anguish and humiliation, wet with snot and tears and saliva, unable to muster a glare and instead collapsing into terrified, hiccupping gasps. His head would fall back or turn away or tuck to his chest, anything to try and save him from looking into my eyes. It wouldn’t matter. He would never be able to hide from me. I’d sink my teeth into his throat. I’d steal from him all the anger, all the violence, I’d make it mine. It’s mine.
My trachea collapsed.
“—”
Belphegor’s struggles would grow suddenly violent as he felt his orgasm being dragged out of him, unable to fathom the idea of climaxing at the hands of a human, beneath a human. His eyes would go wide and scared, his head shaking as he pushed all his remaining strength into that useless begging of his. His body would tear itself apart from the dissonance of pleading with that which he hates, that which he cannot stop.
18+ not particularly graphic, but there is sex. Slut-shaming, vaguely misogynistic undertones. Gn reader, written with amab/strap-on in mind. Kinda evil reader.
[WARNING]: This is kind of really fucked up, not just in the noncon sense. In fact, it’s mostly consensual, but there are parts that exemplify very toxic ways of thinking and Asmo is really victimized.
[DISCLAIMER]: POV character’s perspective of Asmo is not reflective of my own.
Summary: While watching Asmo and Mammon fight over you, you grow lost in your thoughts. And they aren’t good.
“Yeah right, Mammon! What on earth could they see in you that I don’t possess in abundance?” Asmo said, his body wrapped around my arm as he shouted across the table to his brother. This childish quarrel over which of them I found most attractive had been going on for several minutes now, and only seemed to escalate with each passing moment. They had yet to actually ask me to weigh in, which was fine with me. Watching the two of them verbally scrap over my attention was arousing. Especially now that Asmo had decided to get physical about it, his lithe chest pressed against my arm as he clung to me and continued to hurl a mix of insults and self-aggrandizing remarks at Mammon. It wasn’t unusual for Asmo to get handsy, but the competitive desperation in his touch this time around thrilled me. He wasn’t even looking up at me as I took a moment to re-appraise him.
I had already decided when I first arrived here in the Devildom that Asmodeus was someone I’d like to fuck. He had soft skin, delicate proportions, and clearly tried very hard to appear attractive. I didn’t need to walk in on him grooming himself to know that Asmo was dedicated to how he looked—it’s practically all he talked about. I always find myself appreciative of desperate little creatures that need to feel loved; they’ll give themselves up so easily for so little, and Asmo seemed no exception. All I’d done was give him some basic kindness, some casual affection and already he was doing his best for me. I told him I liked how white looked on him, and I haven’t seen the color absent from his outfit once since then. I told him I liked “natural” beauty, suddenly his make-up was a lot more concealer and a lot less eyeshadow. Asmo is sweet with most people, but now I find myself on the receiving end of dozens of compliments a day. I honestly felt embarrassed on his behalf. He was so easy, I almost felt guilty. It had barely been a month since I arrived here, and he was already pining for me.
How long had this argument been going for now? Someone else had stepped in, but it didn’t seem to have deescalated anything. If anything, Asmo’s grip on me had only tightened. His arms coiled snugly around my bicep, and the way he was pushing his chest against me had his back arched. His hips, small, feminine, begging to be grabbed, swayed behind him, back and forth with each argumentative shake of his head. I couldn’t tell if it was on purpose, or if he’d become so accustomed to moving his body in a tempting, salacious manner that it was instinctive. I didn’t care. It was slutty things like that that really drew me to Asmo. Showing himself off, selling his appearance, his body, his face, all of it had me carving the word “WHORE” over the image of him in my mind.
And I bet he fucked like a whore as well. I pictured grabbing hold of those gorgeous slender hips, leaving bruises on his effortfully-cultivated skin, sinking my teeth into that pale little neck, feeling his heartbeat against my gums and the flex of his tendons against my tongue. I’m sure he’d let me, the pathetic little thing. Any attention is good attention when you’re a fucking harlot. I’d make him bleed, tearing up the smooth, unscarred canvas of his body. At some point he’d tell me to stop, to not leave such horrible marks all over him, and I would ignore him. He should be grateful I’d even touch someone as ran-through as him. I’d pull his fluffy hair hard enough to hurt him, forcing his head back until his spine screamed in protest and he cried beautiful tears. I’d fuck him cruelly, impersonally, pushing his body into whatever uncomfortable position I please, and he would still be easy and open for me. His voice would hit the most gorgeous peaks as he begged me not to be so mean to him, and in response, I’d shove his pretty face down where his sounds would be muffled.
When I finished, I’d abandon him, sore, panting, dirtied. He’d whine, pleading with me to not leave him alone, elegant, trembling hands reaching after me, and I’d ignore it. I’d hear him start sobbing in earnest as I left, his body curling up in a meager effort for self-comfort. It would probably be enough to get me to pause, turn back around and fuck him again. Rougher this time in order to wring those miserable little sounds from his throat. He’d cry, good god, he’d fucking cry. He’d look so wrecked, heartbroken even, but through his tears, in a small, ruined, hopeless voice, he’d thank me. Because any attention is good attention when you’re a fucking harlot.
The fantasy was so potent, filling my head like a miasma. It was lurid, so much so that part of me strongly considered acting on it. It was one of the few ideas that, if made a reality, would probably impact my life the least; Asmo was already a needy slut, it’s not like anyone would blame me.
“[Name]!” Asmodeus’ voice, shrill and demanding, cut through the haze of my thoughts. I realised I was staring at him. He was finally looking back at me. He turned back to Mammon, a self-satisfied smile on his face. “See? They can’t keep their eyes off me!”
“Yeah right, they were just zoned out again and you know it!”
“[Name], tell us, which of us do you prefer to hang out with? It’s me, isn’t it?” Asmo asked with a bright smile a bat of his eyelashes. I pictured them clumped together in damp, salty spikes.
“I… like both of you,” I offered insubstantially. This did nothing to end the fight. Good. Asmo was pressed against me harder.
18+ noncon, use of pact, implied blowjob. Gn amab reader. Loweky evil reader— technically all the bad shit happens in their head, but still.
[WARNING]: Overt noncon, straight up rape. It cuts off before anything egregious, but the implication is very strong here.
Summary: When you notice Lucifer, the only brother you haven’t made a pact with, is absent from breakfast, your mind wanders to unsavory places.
I tuned out the noise of the breakfast table. Usually I was alright listening to all the brothers chatter and argue and whatever else, but for some reason I felt particularly tired this morning. Perhaps I’d stayed up a little too late last night. Still, that didn’t mean I didn’t content myself with watching them. Their boisterous noise melted into a single-toned hum as I watched them eat and talk and in Belphie’s case, sleep. There was only one missing. How odd. He was probably the one that was missing the least often. The one that I preferred not to spend my time thinking about at present.
Lucifer.
The only brother I’d yet to make a pact with. In all regards, he was the only one I didn't have total control over. Sure, if I threatened his family or just buttered him up with some liquor and a cursed record, it wouldn't be all that difficult to get what I want, but such careful manipulations lacked the raw thrill and total subservience that accompanied a pact. Once the bond was formed, it made no difference whether the demon liked me or not; their body listened regardless. There was no need for pretenses or veneers. But if I took anything I wanted from any of the six others, there'd be no hope of ever securing a pact with Lucifer. In fact, he'd likely kill me for my transgression.
So for now, I’d have to continue the wait, keeping any thoughts of physicality just that: thoughts. It wasn't a big deal; I'd grown used to knowing my fantasies were impossible. That fact only made them appear more vivid.
I imagined what it might be like, finally making my last pact. Lucifer and I would be alone, perhaps in his room or in his study, that smug, practiced smile on his face as his pact mark burns into my flesh. When it was done, he'd start to say something unimportant, but he wouldn't be able to finish before I issued my first order.
“Kneel.”
His body would obey before he knew what was happening, a rare look of surprise on his face. It wouldn't stay long, his eyes narrowing into that familiar cold-yet-amused gaze as a smirk touches his lips. Condescendingly, he’d try to tell me off, finding my boldness cute more than anything. That hubris would falter when I order him silent. I'm not here for his playful push-and-pull. I have needs, I have wants, and now? I have him. I’d point to his desk, a dark, heavy wooden thing, his eyes following my finger wearily.
“Under there. Crawl.”
His glare would deepen, his eyes hardly leaving mine as his body moved without him. His movements would be slow, almost cautious, certainly reluctant, but no matter how he took his time, he had no choice but to fulfill my command. I’d follow behind him equally slow, sitting languidly in his leather desk chair. He’d look up at me from under his own desk, eyes filled with anger and small, nearly imperceptible flecks of fear. If he could speak, he would say something along the lines of “how dare you do this to me after I put my trust in you” or “you have some nerve looking down at me.” For the first time since I’d arrived here, a genuine smile would crack across my face. It still wouldn’t reach my eyes.
I’d spread my thighs apart, one hand running absently from my waistband down the rise seam of my pants. His eyes would flicker between it and my face. But rather than undo my pants, I would reach forward, brushing a startlingly gentle finger across his cheek. I’m offering him a choice. He’d flinch away, physically recoiling from my touch as his mouth curled into a humiliated snarl. The decision is made. He doesn't deserve gentle. I’d make him regret ever making a pact with me, ruin him so bad he’ll never consider making another ever again.
My hand would cease its slow, savoring movements to instead tangle in his neat hair and yank his face against my crotch. A small, strangled sound would tear from his throat, horror and disgust carved across his perfect face. His hands would rush to push me away, but–
“Hands to yourself,” and suddenly his palms would practically be glued to his lap. His lips, pressed against the inseam of my pants, would tremble as if he was trying to say something. The fear in his eyes would be far more visible now, warring with a bruised ego. I’d hold him firmly between my legs as I popped open the button a few inches in front of his face.
“Unzip me.”
He would glare at me so venomously, a look that could have killed a weaker animal. But his head would still move, up and forward, soft, trembling lips parting to take the tab of my zipper between his pure white teeth. The drag would be excruciatingly slow, his pride fighting the pull of the pact tooth and nail, but his resistance only prolongs his suffering. For every second that he takes to pull the zipper down, my hand tightens in his hair. By the time my pants are open, my fist would be white-knuckled against his scalp. Not willing to wait any longer, I’d shove my underwear down, take my length in my hand and press the head to his lips. He’d flinch violently in my grasp, trying again to pull away, but my hand in his hair is firm. Then, as I slip my thumb past his lips to pry his mouth open–
“Bite me and I’ll make you kill your brothers.”
I imagined the rage flaring beneath his skin. He would hate that. That’s the sort of line that would forever blacken the image of me in his mind. The thought made a heat pool in my gut. I didn’t even realize I’d had my fork in my mouth for five minutes until suddenly–
“[Name].” I jumped, turning to my left to see Beelzebub smiling over at me. He seemed to find my surprised reaction charming because his grin grew somehow brighter.
“Are you okay? Is the food not agreeing with you? I'll take it, if you’d like.”
“Oh. Uh, yeah, sure. Help yourself,” I said, putting my fork down and sliding my plate over to the hungry demon.
“Thanks. Are you alright?” Beel asks, already with a forkful of food in his mouth.
“Yeah. I think I’ll head to class early today.” I stand, and he nods. I wave to the rest of the brothers as I exit the dining room. Their chatter fades away as I leave them behind.
I’m almost knocked off my feet when I bump into Lucifer as he turns a corner. He grabs my arm, steadying me. He smiles.
“Careful now. It wouldn’t do for you to end up on the ground, now would it?”
No smut, but suggestive. Gn reader, appearance not mentioned. Slightly dubious consent.
Summary: Watching Levi throw an embarrassed little fit, it’s hard not to get lost in certain… thoughts.
“Wh—Wh—why are you so close!?” Levi stammered, suddenly shoving me away. I hadn’t been that close, but it’s obvious that he’s not used to being near other people. His face had suddenly surged red, and now he was turning away from me, covering his face with hands. He was even trembling a little. He was so easy to fluster; I’d grown quite used to seeing him flushed tomato-red. I bet if I pushed a little I could get him to cry relatively easily. I pictured closing the distance between us, getting in front of him and prying his hands from his face. His eyes would go wide with surprise, too taken off-guard to even struggle as I lean in close. His face would get impossibly redder and he’d stammer something unintelligible, his eyes flicking back and forth across my face as if searching for an explanation for my sudden forwardness.
“Wait—” is all he’d manage before I’d yank him by his wrists into a kiss. He’d make another high-pitched sound, still trying and failing to speak against my lips. Whatever he’d say, I’d ignore it, just taking the chance to shove my tongue past his lips. He’d be shaking even harder now, his body unsure of how it should be reacting. In my mind, he’s never been touched like this before, never felt someone’s mouth on his. I know it’s a fantasy, but part of me believes there’s a chance the real Leviathan is untouched. Virgin.
As I watch him mutter rapidly into his hands—something about normies and socially inept otakus— I imagine what it’d be like to bite his lip. He’d probably whimper, maybe try to turn his head away as his embarrassment overwhelms him. Of course, I wouldn’t let him. I’d graciously release one of his wrists, instead using that hand to grab his face, tugging him back into the kiss.
His free hand would hang in the air for a moment, frozen and trembling like the rest of him, before grasping at my own wrist. He’d tug half-heartedly at my arm, not sure what he actually wants. He’d try speaking again, and this time I’d catch the sound of my name between his pathetic little mewls.
My kissing would grow insistent, pressing my mouth harder against his, invading deeper, biting harder. His sounds are slightly more fearful but they also carry a deep, unwilling excitement. He won’t let himself melt into it, but for the several moments it lasts, he hardly puts up a fight. I can feel the wetness of his eyes against my cheeks…
“—you weirdo!” Levi finishes, his final accusatory shout muffled in his palms.
