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code-otome-game · 8 months ago

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⋆⁺₊❅⋆ 𐙚 ₊˚ BOUNDED TO. belphie x fem reader

warnings ꒱ྀི incest. mild dub-con. blowjob. minor hairpulling. jealousy. sis-con belphie. repost / 18+

“luci says you’re not supposed to come in my room anymore.”

you kept your position on the bed. you lay on your slightly exposed belly with your back facing the door. you didn’t see the point in directing your gaze behind you when you were expecting this very moment to happen.

it’s been a few days since your last exchange, and it was only a matter of time before he’d seek you out once more. still, you maintained your weak show of defiance.

belphie chuckles dryly, amused at your attempt.

"well, for one, luci isn’t even here," he sneers.

he recoils at the nickname, annoyed at how sweetly it rolls off your tongue while he spits it out of his. jealousy hangs off the fringes at the mention of his elder brother, and it’s only quelled when he remembers his access to you. it dampens his anger, though only by a bit.

“and why am i not allowed here? did you tell him all the dirty things i did to you?”

you tense up at the words he utters, saturated with taunt, and your face begins to warm.

he watches as you become rigid, knowing that memories from just a mere few nights ago were running around in your head, and he took that as his invitation to keep going.

“did you tell him how i sucked your fat little cunt until you squirted?”

and incoming—you chuck a pillow at him with your demonic strength hoping that it would somehow drive a hole through his head for being so crude.

“shut up! you said you wouldn’t make fun of me for it."

belphie smirks as he catches the pillow with ease and he tucks it under his arm.

regret settles in the pit of your stomach, but more importantly, embarrassment.

you recall that night in such vivid detail. he parted your folds, in awe at the puffy thickness. he sucked at your chubby mound, flicking his tongue against your lips until he delved in deeper, warming your hole with his mouth. he used such sensual descriptors, calling your cunt succulent and sweet until your cream coated not only his tongue but the entire lower half of his face.

you feel ashamed that even recalling the event begins to arouse you. your thighs squish together without your permission, and you hope it snuffs out the remaining desire.

"it's nothing to be embarrassed about. it was sexy—cute even.”

belphie teases, and you audibly groan.

he was different from beel in many ways, and you questioned how he could be the twin of such a sweet and friendly glutton until you realized the extent of belphie's insatiability.

he would never admit it, but he inexplicably craved you. his utter desire to pull you apart and put you back together for his own pleasure. he wanted you all to himself, which struck you as odd.

he’s mean; he teases you, pulls your hair, calls you names, and then, when you’re on precipice of exploding, suddenly you’re his ‘darling little sister.’ he'd whisper praise against your lips, making you forget why you were mad in the first place. he’s mastered riling you up and talking you back down, but it was exhausting—he's exhausting.

you settle on ignoring him, preferring to kick your feet back and forth on the bed while you busied yourself with whatever had your attention.

he lowers his head to peek underneath your oversized shirt and perversely looks between your bare thighs before locking the door behind him.

he walks towards your relaxed frame, remaining a good distance away but close enough to peer over and glance at what had you so occupied.

“are you mad at me?” he questions, tossing the pillow to the side.

“when am i not?”

you shrug off his pathetic attempt to ease your anger, as you are used to his patterns by now. you hum the measly tune playing and tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, refusing to look at him. “what do you want, belphie?”

“who says i want anything? can’t a big brother hang out with his little sister?”

you scoff.

“nice try, but we don't 'hang out' and no, co-napping doesn't count.” you lock your phone and put it on the nightstand.

“just tell me what you want.”

his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek.

“is that any way to talk to your big brother?”

he reels back some of his attitude hoping it comes across as playful. he didn’t want you to be too upset because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to calm you back down. thankfully, you didn’t seem angry—just bothered, and somehow belphie hated that more.

“you’re only older than me by like a month and that’s not anything to brag about.”

he sucked his teeth. always eager to remind him that, while he was older, it was just barely –as if he cared.

“doesn’t matter. i’m still your big brother.”

there’s a brief moment of silence before you sigh. “whatever you say.”

you're appeasing him; it's like you didn’t actually believe it yourself. his annoyance spiked, and you enjoyed it. it was nice to give him a taste of his own medicine for a change, and see him so worked up , especially over something so trivial.

“look at me when i’m talking to you.”

you choose to play coy and ignore his demand until you're suddenly startled.

the bed abruptly dips as he settles on top of you.

you finally turn around to protest, but he barely gives you a chance. your bewildered eyes meets his firm gaze. his mouth connects to the spot just under your ear, his breath fans your skin, and a shock travels down your spine, resting in your lower back.

his hands weaves around you and digs into the sheets, trapping you against the bed.

“don’t be like that.” his voice is much lower and more inviting, but still authoritative.

he takes his other hand to lift up your shirt to your surprise. he admires the cute and skimpy pajamas and how the shape of your slit was visible as you futilely kicked at him.

embarrassed, you reach to pull your shirt down.

“b-belphie! stop !” you shriek.

he snickers at your expression. his lean and languid body drapes over you as he burrows into you. his nose and lips caress your skin, inciting goosebumps. it prods you lightly, making you shift from being abashed to giggly.

you can’t stop the laugh from bubbling up inside; you bite your lips to muffle them, but when he licks at your neck, you can no longer hide it.

“that tickles,”

“yeah?”

the skin around your eyes wrinkle and your body twitches from his teasing.

“if that’s the case . . .”

he moves too quickly for you to process. his knees settle on either side of your hips, his chest to your back, while his hands pin your wrists down. you’re so used to seeing belphie so idle that his agility catches you by surprise.

his mouth latches on the back of your neck and begins to plant spit-covered hickeys on your skin.

“n’more marks . . .” you whine, but he doesn’t listen. he hoped lucifer would see them.

if there was one thing he hated more than lucifer, it was the relationship you had with him.

you were different around each other. the lucifer he knows is cold and calculating, except when he speaks to you. It’s gentle, reassuring, and sickeningly tender—it's disgusting. he babies you, and you lapped up his affection like a puppy.

belphie supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. you’re the youngest and the only girl—the only sister—and you’re lucifer’s favorite. you're docile and soft-spoken around him and lucifer treated you like you were as fragile as a quaint flowers. he’s always careful— worried that if he were too rough, he’d pluck you from the ground and you’d wilt.

you were a demon; you could withstand much more, but the avatar of pride didn't care.

he didn't care that you were spoiled, bratty, and foul-mouthed, and maybe lucifer was blind to it. he couldn’t realize that about his precious sister when he was too busy fucking her.

dinners were especially tortuous. he wonders if you can feel him staring daggers at you when you obediently take your seat next to lucifer and proceed to give him all of your attention.

he hates how you play with your hair and cross and uncross your legs, like you’re nervous. what could you possibly be talking about with him that turns you into a fidgeting mess?

why should he even care? he doesn't care; actually, it didn't matter. you can pretend all you want; he knows what type of girl you are and the naughty things you likes

belphie's teeth scrape and lightly prick your skin to prove a point —it’s not deep enough to bleed but just enough to bruise and hear your mewl. he’s so close that his lashes gently feather your cheek. the smell of your hair and faint perfume lingering cause belphie to become feverish. it annoyed him to see how his body reacted to yours.

his cock pulsates against his pants, and he presses into your behind. you’re soft and pretty and sweet enough to taint.

“I need you to do something for me, baby sis.”

he struggles to ask. he didn't want what you believed to be about him to be true. he's only around you when he needs something, but he swears you are a drug. he can’t help the tent in his pants and how aroused he gets when you’re angry and pissed off at him.

you twist your neck as much as he’d allow to look at the demon behind you.

“w-what?” you stutter, too focused on the way his hips grind against your ass.

your shirt rides up, but this time from his movement. you can feel his eyes burning on the skin of your butt, and you couldn’t pull the fabric back down to hide.

"you know what i want.”

belphie leaves a trail of kisses on your body. tugging down your collar, he nibbles on your shoulder.

“I need your pretty little mouth,” he whispers right by the shell of your ear. his nose digs into you, tracing vertical lines while he inhales your scent. “i want to feel it around my cock.”

you tutted.

"we can’t anymore. we’ll get in trouble.” you wiggle against him, attempting to shut your legs to ease the throb in your lower region.

“we won’t.” he promises. “I just need to cum in my little sister’s throat.” he eyes the length of your neck, eyes hazy like he was imagining it. “i need to fuck it.”

you blush profusely at the demand. “nuh-uh” was your defiant reply.

in response, belphie unpins one of your wrists and instead tangles his fingers in your hair to pull it. your head is thrown back from the force, and you cry out. “hurts..”

yeah, of course it does. he wonders how angry lucifer would be if he saw how he roughhoused you.

your plump lips are slightly parted, and your eyes are glossy. he looks between the two of them.

with an open mouth, his lips find yours to press a sloppy wet kiss. he couldn’t resist you, and he wouldn’t even try to.

“we won’t get in trouble as long as you don’t tell anyone, okay?”

he knew someone would notice the number he did on your nape, but you didn’t need to fret about that, at least not now. he loosens his grip on your strands while his hips still move at a slow pace, cock-humping your backside for his gratification and to encourage you.

“b-but—”

“but nothing. you’re going to suck me off because i’m your big brother and you love me, right?" the exalting feelings you possess for him can’t be questioned, but you remain hesitant. you know it’s wrong, and yet you nod anyway.

“ i love you so much, belphie.”

he smiles at your obedience. you’re always more likely to listen when your cunt is weeping for him. he didn’t have to see it to know that you’re soaked.

“good.” he pats the side of your cheek.

you study him with glossy and affectionate eyes. your lips are pursed and trembling like you want another kiss. he’s learned how to read your silent pleas, and so he grants you another peck.

“love you.” you say it again, but with the innocence that belphie craves. you hope he melts at the sound of your voice, but he doesn’t. he crumbles.

“love you too. i love you so fucking much, you have no idea,” he mumbles it against your soft lips, his orbs staring deep into yours with such desire and fondness. he kisses you once more and then twice, rubbing your chin softly.

“my perfect little sister isn’t that right? you're going to do what your big brother says.”

and his mouth is hot against yours. his tongue, used to such venom, felt sweet for a change and it makes you wet.

your back arches as he continues to kiss you. his tongue caresses the roof of your mouth; it's messy and audible, and you croon at the sensation. you felt sensitive; even your nipples brushing against the cotton of your shirt were enough to draw out tiny squeaks.

“big brother...” you mewl it against his mouth, and belphie fucking groans.

“f-fuck.” he’s zipping down his pants.

“i'm so fucked up. you have no idea how fucking hard that makes me.”

he spanks you on your ass and removes his body from on top of you. he lays on his back, crossing his arms behind his head to rest on your pillows.

he’s relieved when your dainty hands pull down his pants and his cock springs free. slender and long, tilting slightly with thin veins on the sides, a rosy pink tip coated in a thin layer of pearlescent white.

your mouth puckers and sucks on his leaky slit for a few seconds before you bury him in your throat. the friction is familiar, and the burn forces you to produce more spit. your drooling mouth deepthroats him, suctioning around his shaft with your tongue flicking on any vein it comes across.

you keep going even as his cock kisses the back of your throat. when he hears you gag, his hand rests on your head to keep you still.

“I want to feel you choke, baby. cmon suck it.”

bucking into the vice that was your mouth, your hair fans out around his thighs. belphie thinks to tug on it when he wants to fuck your face even harder.

“gonna empty my cum in my little sister’s throat,” he groans gutturally just as soon as your lips touch his coarse hairs. your tears threaten to spill.

he calls out to you, continuing to hump your warm mouth.

“call me big brother again.”

you look up at him with that precious, messy cock-sucking face as you swallow around him.

you try to straighten your back , attempting to remove his length from the slick opening of your throat, but the firm hand on your head keeps you still.

“say it.”

you feel a wave of anxiety. you try to keep the drooling from overwhelming you, but it doesn’t stop. you swallowed around him reactively, aware of how much he was stuffing and stretching your mouth. you’re careful to prevent yourself from choking as you struggle to speak, but you gag a few more times.

“b-bwig b-bwother.”

filthy ribbons of spit and cum drip for your mouth ruining your clothes and sticking to your chest.

your tiny mouth struggles to take him. it’s far from perfect, it’s sloppy and messy, but belphie thinks you never looked more beautiful.

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code-otome-game · 1 year ago

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The Yandere!Demon Brothers’ Darkest Fantasies.

TW: Graphic Violence, (Imagined) Non-Con, Power-Play, Master/Servant Dynamics, Dub-Con, Mentions of Masturbation, Mentions of Blood/Bruising, and General Unhealthy Mindsets All Around.

Lucifer wants you to bow to him.

Out of everyone on the list, he does the least to hide his fantasies, regardless of how depraved or dubious or down-right disgusting they get. Why would he? There are only a handful of people stronger than him, more capable than him, and when it’s so clear that you’re so weak and feeble and in such desperate need of guidance, he hardly feels the need to wait for you to ask. It borders on pet-play, honestly, if only because he’s so quick to pull out a collar the first time you puff out your cheeks and refuse to get on your knees when he was nice enough to order around you politely.

It’s all about control for him, or rather, the reassurance that he’s the one who has it. The knowledge that he’s the strongest, the most responsible, and that he deserves to be in charge, even if things tend to get bloody under his command. He’ll make you say such awful things, telling you exactly what he wants to hear as the heel of his boot digs into your bare spine, keeping your chest pressed against the floor while you sing his praises and drag your own name through the mud, confessing every rash, irresponsible thing you’ve ever done in an effort to distract him from the whip that never seems to leave his hand. He knows what it’s like to be treated as something holy, what it’s like to be revered rather than feared, and he doesn’t want to stop pushing until you look at him with the same admiration, the same unadulterated love he used to be showered in.

And if you don’t, if you won’t, he’ll be happy to break you down until you don’t have another choice. Obedience is a close second to reverence, and Lucifer has enough toys to make either a viable option.

Mammon wants to keep you to himself.

It’s a natural progression, honestly. He’s your first, he’s your man, and you’re his human, his responsibility, the most useless treasure in his collection and the only one that truly, genuinely matters to him. For now, he can wrap an arm around your waist, narrow his eyes and keep any potential rivals at a distance, but he can’t do anything to keep away his own brothers. Baring his teeth and sharpening his claws feels childish when all you do is smile and tell him not to be so jealous. Everything he does feels pointless when you can just laugh and run off with the first person to pull you away from him. You make it pointless. You are pointless, you should just be lucky he wants you anyway.

It’d be so simple, too, so easy to just close the door to his room and not open it again, not until you’re chained to something too tight to slip out of. No one would be able to get their hands on you, no one would be able to take you away, it’d just be you and him and no one else, not if he can help it. You’d be his to ruin, his to care for, his to dote on or discipline or do whatever he pleases to, whenever he wants to. It’d be heaven for him, and… it wouldn’t be, for you.

That’s part of the fantasy, and he hates it. He doesn’t want to be cruel to you, he doesn’t want to see you cry because of him, and yet, all he wants to do is polish his newest addition until it’s as shiny and as his as the rest of his hoard. He wants not to care when you cry, he wants to look down at your shaking body and he wants to laugh, to sneer, to tell you that this is your fault and you have no one to blame but yourself. Maybe he wants to be more apathetic, maybe he just wants to stop being so hesitant, but what he wants seems to be less important than what he’s starting to need. If the number of ‘packages’ he’s been getting is any indication, I wouldn’t count on his reluctance lasting for much longer.

Leviathan wants you to make him cry.

He’s not a masochist. Or, he is a masochist, but not in the way you’d assume. Leviathan doesn’t bother pretending to be confident. He doesn’t act like he has all the self-esteem in the world, and he doesn’t try to hide his (admittedly poor) view of his lifestyle. That might be why he loses his composure whenever you compliment him, why he stutters and blushes and gets so awkward when you try to tell him that you like the way he is, that you love him for it. That you don’t mind.

It’s an awful, unhealthy part of himself that wants you to say otherwise. To contradict yourself, to smirk and shove him onto your bed and say you couldn’t find him more disgusting, that you’ve never known someone so pathetic. Maybe it’s just a depraved daydream, a desire to have his worst fears proven right by the person he loves most, or maybe, he just likes the image of you riding him into overstimulation as you make him thank you for taking pity on someone so hopeless, maybe he just likes to imagine the feeling of your hands around his neck, your grip tightening every time his gaze falls lower than your eyes. He has a whole list of names for you to call him, insults ranging from ‘pervert’ to ‘drain on society’, but he’d never tell that to you. No, he can barely bring himself to think about this kind of stuff, let alone say any of it outloud.

All he can do is let his touch wander whenever he hugs you, let his fingers brush against things they shouldn’t and leave them to linger for far too long for his actions to be taken as an innocent mistake. He isn’t sure whether he’s trying to push you to hate him, trying to really make his fantasy into a reality, or if he just wants you to get the message that he wants something more intimate, something more violent. Either way, he’s started leaving his door unlocked when his mind begins to wander. Open, sometimes, if it’s just the two of you home. Just hope your room isn’t too close to his. He tends to get… explicit, when he’s feeling passionate.

Satan wants to show everyone who you belong to.

His fantasy is one of the most depraved, if only because it barely has anything to do with you. No, it’d only be fitting for the Avatar of Wrath’s favorite daydream to be centered around something more possessive, something more domineering, something totally and utterly separate from the person he loves. You’re not replaceable, it has to be you for him to care to put in the effort, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to check whether or not you’re enjoying yourself when he bends you over the dining room table in the middle of breakfast, for no other reason than Asmodeus commented on your outfit and Beelzebub offered to carry your bag and neither of them should be doing so much as looking at you when he’s right there, when it’s so clear that you belong to someone and that he doesn’t want to share.

On the outside, his self-control is as impeccable as always, but he’d be lying if said his hand didn’t twitch every time Mammon stood a little too close, every time Leviathan scraped up the courage to talk to you. He’s so strong, too, and you’re so, so weak, it wouldn’t even be a fair fight. He could cage you against a bookshelf or throw you onto a countertop and what would you do? Try to push him away? Scream for help? An audience is what he wants, what he craves, a crowd of anyone and everyone who’s ever touched you to watch as you beg for him to stop and moan his name and cry as you cum, even if he has to get a little messier than he’d like, for that. Risky sex might come close to scratching his itch, but the risk of being caught and making a show of something so private are two different vices entirely. You’ll be lucky if it does anything but make him bolder, more blatant with his plans. He takes after Lucifer, in that regard. He doesn’t know why he’d try to hide it.

As far as he’s concerned, he owns you, and you’ve only got yourself to blame if you haven’t realized that yet. It’s only fair that he gets to mark what’s his, as plainly and as publicly as possible.

Asmodeus wants you to say ‘no’ to him.

Do I really have to say anything else? He’s so tired of seduction, so sick of glazed eyes and glossy lips and people so intoxicated by his presence, they’re practically tripping over themselves just to feel the heels of his boots press into their backs as he walks over them. It’s not that he wants a chase, he’s always been a pacifist at heart, and he’d rather not have to resort to any unsavory means, he’s just bored and feed-up and he wants something new, even if it’s only fun for him.

It doesn’t help that he’s terrible at holding himself back. He’s good at hiding his true feelings (he’s already so touchy, it gets hard to tell what’s innocent and what’s not), but it’s impossible not to notice how fond he’s become of admiring your wrists, buying you bracelets so thick and so heavy, you can hardly hold them up. You can’t ignore it when he takes a moment too long to pull away when you tell him you want space, or just how hesitant he seems to let you go after ‘playfully’ pinning you to his bed. He wants to keep going. He wants to see the light drain from your eyes as you realize he’s not going to stop, to feel you writhe and struggle and try to get away, to hear you scream your safeword and to ignore it, to not care than you don’t want him. He doesn’t want to make you suffer, not any more than he has to, but his heart never fails to beat a little faster when he pictures it, and he gets more excited than he’s been in centuries by the thought alone.

If anything, you should feel honored. It’s been so long since he wanted something so specific, someone so specific, he almost forgot what it was like to lust for rather than be lusted after. I’d say he’s unprepared for it, but Asmodeus is hard to catch off-guard, and this just so happens to be his area of expertise. He has a way of getting what he wants, even if he has to make things a little difficult for everyone else.

Beelzebub wants to see how far you bend.

You really can’t blame him for being curious. It’s more of an intrusive thought than a fantasy, something he can’t help but think about, not once he realizes how strong he is and how resilient you aren’t. And, unlike the others, his fantasy has a specific catalyst, a real, substantial reason for its existence. He’d just been holding your hand, his grip still bordering on loose, but your fingers had cracked under his like glass under a bulldozer. It was just a sprain, something Simeon had healed with a contemplative glance and a flick of his wrist, but it stuck with Beelzebub. It stuck with him and god, he wishes it hadn’t.

He can’t help the places his mind wanders to. He can’t stop himself, not once he starts wondering what it’d be like if he was just a little bit bigger and you were just a little bit smaller and he cared a lot less about hurting you than he does, in reality. You’d be so tight, warm and welcoming and so easily broken if he does so much as breaths on you the wrong way, and you’d look so pretty afterward, too sore to move without his help and absolutely covered in bruises and bitemarks he didn’t even have to try to leave.

The aftercare is the only part he doesn’t mind wanting. At least it’s softer than the rest of it, full of kisses and snacks and touches so light, he can almost pretend he hadn’t just imagined fucking you until your ribs caved in under his palms. He’s mapped out every ugly, tender mark he’d leave, every place you’d ache and throb, every minute of your recovery - every second it’d take you to get well enough for him to do it all over again. Maybe he’ll even call in a favor, bow his head and swallow his shame for just long enough to have someone who’s got a hand for healing on stand-by so he wouldn’t have to wait, but he never lets his mind drift that far. He’s too busy trying to convince himself he still doesn’t want to hurt you.

Belphegor wants to take advantage of your trust.

Unlike his twin, Belphegor wishes he just wants to hurt you. Pain is simple, or, physical pain is simple, anyway. He could tell himself it’s because you’re human, that hating you is just an old habit he hasn’t kicked. He’d pinch your cheeks and pull at your hair and he’d try to be satisfied with that, he’d tell himself he doesn’t want anything more. He’d be lying to himself, of course, but it’d still be an honest effort. Unfortunately, what he wants isn’t that clear-cut. It isn’t that shallow, and that’s why he has to hate himself for it.

Maybe it arose the first time you fell asleep before him, when you were so vulnerable and exposed and so helpless he had to wonder whether or not you had a deathwish. Or how at-peace you seem during his rare shows of affection, as if the talons tracing patterns into your skin couldn’t easily dig in and pull at the slightest hint of a threat. You’re so comfortable around him, so careless, you need to be taught a lesson and he needs to teach it to you. On good days, it’s almost innocent. Groping you while you’re only half-awake, letting his hand trail up your thigh during a council meeting because he knows you’re too nice to say anything. On bad days, on most days, he’s fucking his fist to the thought of holding you down while someone you like much less than him does something vile to your anatomy, only offering the barest hints of comfort when your crying gets loud enough to be annoying.

You trust him, and the worst part is, you’ll probably still trust him when he’s done. He’s been forgiven for worse, and that’s what gets him off, the idea that you’ll still look at him like the closest friend you’ve ever had the moment he averts his eyes and offers a half-hearted apology, saying he’s grown, that he just had to get it out of his system, that he won’t do it again even though he absolutely, definitely will. And you’ll believe him, because somehow, you still trust him. Because you’re always going to trust him.

Because he’s prepared to bleed you dry until you don’t know how to do anything but trust him, anymore.

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