#fullofbeesasks

The thought has you sighing in frustration and sadness. You had been looking forward to the weekend, having been invited out by Asmodeus for a spa treatment and much needed retail therapy. A Devildom influencer you liked had been raving about a new gel polish that you were desperate to get your hands on. And with Asmo by your side, you were sure to get one in each color, as his death glare would keep any lesser demons out of your way.   

You can already see the demon’s pout as you regretfully cancel your plans in the morning. You know he’ll hug you tightly, promising to get the polish for you anyways before kissing your forehead. That is all well and good, but you miss the lustful fifth-born.  

Focusing on it will only make your mood worse. Deciding to leave everything where it was– you did not have the energy to lug everything back to your room– you stand from the loveseat and put out the fireplace. Darkness overtakes the library in an instant, the eerie feeling creeping up your spine reminding you of the house’s haunted nature.   

Holding your D.D.D. tight to your chest, you know you’re probably being silly as you turn its flashlight on. As you make your way to the exit, you can hear faint music echoing from beyond the room. It only adds to the creep factor, making you feel like the lovesick protagonist of Guillermo Del Toro’s latest blockbuster hit. You’ll exit the library to find your ghostly lover at the end of the hall, and you’ll call and chase after them only to watch them vanish into thin air as after rounding a corner.   

The door creaks as you open it to the adjoining music room. Faint candlelight blossoms from the far corner, your supposed lover cloaked in a black silhouette. The melody flowing from their fingertips is soft and melancholic, as if afraid to be heard. Moonlight gleams from the windows, creating a tiled path up to the grand piano, cool grays melting into the warm golden light from the candles.   

You hadn’t realized you had taken a few steps into the room until the heavy wooden door of the library slammed shut behind you. You’re not proud of it, but you scream and end up tripping over your feet when you try to run away. Bruisably soft body meets unforgiving cold tile. The melody stops, being replaced by frantic steps rushing your way.   

Rushing blood causes your head to pound as you push yourself to your knees. You’re greeted with the sight of black Oxfords before you. Raising your head, Lucifer stares down at you with a confused look on his face. His large coat is nowhere to be found; his tie is undone, hanging loosely around his neck, with the first few buttons of his shirt open. A delicate rosy glow decorates the exposed skin, trailing up to his cheeks. His well-kept hair is now messy and tangled, like he’s been constantly running his hands through it.   

“Lucifer…?” You hesitantly ask, wondering why he’s not saying anything.  

The demon bends forward and offers you his hand, gloves absent for once, “Are you alright?”   

After placing your hand in his, Lucifer helps you off the floor. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”  

“I just finished studying,” you answer.  

“Very well, time for you to head to bed then.”  

You stare at each other, an awkward aura settling around. Lucifer’s eyebrows furrow in annoyance, “What is it?”  

“Uhm, it’s just– You haven’t let go of my hand.”  

He looks down at your clasped hands, fingers intertwined, and his expression softens. Still, he doesn’t release you from his hold, now too entranced by the feeling of your soft skin.  

“Lucifer, are– are you alright?”   

The first-born drops your hand suddenly, as if he has been burned, before taking a step back from you, “Quite. Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”  

You nearly roll your eyes, wanting to chastise him about how his health and happiness are always your concern as their assistant, but manage to refrain when you see how his gaze lingers. It’s not hollow, like he’s looking through you, but rather like he’s searching for something. A gut instinct tells you to defy his dismissal and stay; you have a feeling he wants you to.  

“I didn’t know you could play, you’re really good,” You lie, trying to use conversation as an excuse to stay. But Lucifer merely answers with a confirming hum.   

The awkward feeling returns, and you’re caught off by just how much it hurts. You forget that this isn’t your Lucifer; this is him at a time of vulnerability, of distrusting others, a time where you hadn’t existed to comfort him.   

“Can I listen?” Now it is your turn to extend a metaphorical hand to him. You just hope he takes it.   

The demon acquiesces with a gruff, “Fine,” before turning on his heel and making his way back to the piano. You follow behind silently, listening to the steady chorus resounding off the walls as your footsteps fall in line with his.   

You’re startled by the mess that surrounds the instrument. Music sheets litter the floor; some crumpled up and piled in a nearby wastebin, some torn in half, others in multiple little pieces, all of them with hasty scribbles of ink and jarring lines where the notes have been scratched out. An uncorked bottle of demonus sits precariously on the piano’s frame, though there is no glass in sight.   

Lucifer seats himself on the bench as you begin collecting the discarded papers from the floor. The demon doesn’t seem to pay you any mind, as he starts a slow melody, single notes echoing out into the adjoining planetarium.   

Some of his writing has not been completely crossed out, and the repeating themes of his words both confuses and saddens you.   

Dread encounters me  

My palate discerns disasters  

That my soul would choose suffocation  

And are not satisfied with my flesh?  

“I was there that day; the day my Father broke that man’s spirit... I had delighted in it,” Lucifer’s somber voice cuts through the chords, “Is it not poetry then that I would befall the same fate?”  

The papers rustle in your hands as you even the pile out, “And what fate is that?”  

He hums, fingers idly hovering over the ivory keys, before chuckling and shaking his head, resuming his playing, “Forgive me, the demonus has loosened my tongue.”  

It always does, you want to say. You have lost count how many times Lucifer had whispered the sweetest, and filthiest, words imaginable to you because of the damned drink. How many mornings had he awoke to find himself drooling on your chest, his hair wild and unkempt from your hands during the previous night’s activities?   

It almost crushes you in its enormity; to realize how lonely you feel amongst the very devil you love, to feel his absence though he sits before you. You miss him so much.  

You remind yourself that you will return to him soon; that’s he’s not as far as he seems, all you need to do is form the pacts again. If you think about it, freshly fallen Lucifer is much like the Lucifer you knew when you first came to the Devildom, albeit considerably more brooding.   

It’s familiar. He’s familiar. You can do this.  

Lucifer had told you about ‘that day’ once, when he was but a babe of an angel, with only Simeon and Michael to keep him company. You had heard of the story before, as it had been spread amongst humankind for hundreds of years. You even had spent a a great deal of your own time studying it and any accompanying texts.   

No scribe could match the horrors he had shared with you. It was the worst you had ever seen him, save for tonight. It was a distant past wound to your Lucifer, but for the one before you, it is open and raw.  

Cautiously, you approach him, clutching the music sheets to your chest. You had comforted him once before, and surely that kind of bond can transcend time.   

“Therefore, I will not restrain my mouth; I will speak in the anguish of my spirit. I will complain in the bitterness of my soul.”  

The music stops. Lucifer now stares at you with both curiosity and apprehension. His gaze is piercing, intimidating, but it no longer phases you, for you have seen the tenderness that hides below.  

The demon shuffles over to make room for you on the bench and you graciously take the offered seat. Such a simple action should not thrill you so, but the warmth radiating from him is like your second home. The remnant of his cologne fills your lungs, and you’re pleased to find that it is the very same that he uses in the future. How very Lucifer to wear the same scent for centuries; you’ll have to tease him for it later.  

You’re about to speak, to further soothe his worries, but do not get the chance as his lips meet yours. His bare hands cradle your face, trapping you to the onslaught of feverish kisses, but it barely satisfies your craving for him. The papers you hold begin to slip from your grip before you cast them back to the ground so that you can run your hands through his hair.  

Tension quickly melts into desperation as you cling to each other, but your body demands air, and you are forced to separate. Lucifer takes the moment to stand, his hands dropping to your waist as he encourages you to rise as well. Once up, he immediately spins you around to press your body against the piano.  

Harsh and discordant notes chime from below as he balances you against the keys, hands gripping your thighs as he trails sloppy kisses along your neck. Your need is only intensified when he grinds his clothed cock between your spread legs, eliciting a small moan. He repeats the action again, harder than before, and it shakes the piano.  

You’re interrupted by the sound of glass breaking, and if the growing red puddle on the floor is anything to go by, a perfectly good bottle of demonus has just been wasted. Lucifer releases a deep sigh with a scowl, and tries to part from your body, presumably to clean up the mess.  

But you refuse to let him go, not when he was finally where you wanted him most. You push your heel into his backside, hands simultaneously pulling on his belt, forcing him back into position.  

“Don’t you dare stop.”  

Just this week alone, you have smacked into six doors, three tables, and nearly tripped down the academy’s stairs all because you can’t tear your eyes away from Beel. Your habitually organized notes have been abandoned for doodles of the demon. Textbooks have been left at home to free up space in your bag for his favorite snacks. You now attend every Fangol practice, annoying the cheerleaders when you whoop and holler whenever Beel scores. 

The others have noticed your infatuated behavior, but if any of them knew about your little dairy mishap, you’re thankful for their silence on the matter. You’d quite simply die if they tried to bring it up. You were embarrassed by your lovesick schoolgirl behavior, finding it mortifying how hot your cheeks burn with every quick glance, any lingering touch. Hells, even just the sound of his stomach grumbling would send a thrill through your body. 

Yet the demon has consumed your mind in its entirety. Beelzebub graces your dreams, and dominates your waking thoughts; you’re restless, easily distracted, and oh so fucking horny. Damn near every night since, you can be found touching yourself to the memory of his promise; you swear you can still taste him on your tongue. You wanted—no needed—to devour him. 

The only solace you’ve found is knowing that Beel is just as infatuated as you are. You’ve always had a close bond since you made your pact, but now, both of you are damn near inseparable. Even Belphegor has had to intervene, either kicking you out or dragging Beel back to their shared room, grumbling through lazy yawns about it being unfair.  

That doesn’t stop you and the sixth-born from sending each other texts. Many nights have you forgone sleep just to talk to him, heart fluttering in your chest every time you see the three dots appear. That didn’t last long though, as Lucifer and Satan decided to put aside their differences to create a curse that wouldn’t allow you to use your D.D.D. after a certain hour. At least jealousy was one thing they could agree on. 

You turn to your side, taking your frustration out on your blankets as you kick them into place. The alarm clock on the bedside table reads 23:58. You’ve been locked in your room since 9 PM, with Lucifer saying that you can ‘get used to it’ until your grades are back to normal.  

Yet, in an act of stupid defiance, you spent that time staring blankly at the ceiling. You tried to go to bed early, but your late nights sexting trysts have ruined your sleep schedule. Normally, you’d watch a video or listen to some music to fall asleep, but the curse has already infected your phone, making it impossible to use.  

Perhaps this was for the best. You needed to focus. 

Quiet knocks interrupt your pity party. You ignore them, figuring it’s the creaky floorboards of the old, haunted house.  

Until they sound again, though faster this time, and followed by a hushed call of your name.  

Immediately, you fling your blankets off your body, hissing when your feet meet cold floor. But you push through the discomfort on your tiptoes as you hurry to the door. 

You’d always recognize that voice.  

Your favorite gluttonous demon is leaning against the frame when you open the door, his normally fluffy hair bogged down to his skin by a thin sheen of sweat, and cheeks deliciously flushed. He visibly tenses when he meets your gaze, and even though Beel is twice your height, he turns his attention to the floor, blush deepening as if the wrong reaction will cut the gentle giant down.  

“Beel, what are you--” 

“I think... it’s time.” 

Though a flush creeps from the tip of your ears and down your neck, you wordlessly open the door wider and gesture for him to come inside. The demon shuffles into the room with a relieved smile. 

The weight of what’s about to happen has you momentarily pause, a whirlwind of nerves yet eagerness churning in your gut. You lock the door once it’s closed, a futile effort against your supernatural housemates, but it grants you some peace of mind as you make sense of your dizzying thoughts. 

You’re disturbed from your mind a second time by a low groan coming from behind you. When you turn, you see that Beelzebub has already made himself comfortable on your bed, palming his hardening cock through his pajama pants.   

It’s like a switch flipped, all your anxiety disappears amongst the yearning you’ve been keeping at bay. It isn’t long before you’re at his side, whispering praise as you press two fingers to his lips and then into his mouth. The groans he releases as he sucks on your digits reverberates through your body, and you shiver as goosebumps cover your skin. 

Beel’s happily compliant when you push a third finger into his mouth, doesn’t shy away from gagging when you slip a little too deep. You remove your drenched fingers, a trail of saliva connecting back to his lips as you admire the wetness.  

He whines when you tug on his bottoms, hips unsteady when he raises them so you can pull the material down. Teasing the tip of his cock with your spit-soaked fingers has him throwing his head back against your pillows.  

You take the time to admire the demon below you as he pants and whimpers under your touch. He wears a black muscle tank with the academy’s mascot on it, the logo faded and cracking from age. It’s what lies underneath the shirt that sends another hum of need between your thighs.  

Straining against the fabric are Beel’s pecs, so swollen with milk that it pulls the cloth taut. You can’t stop yourself from licking your lips as you realize that you’re finally going to be able to taste him again. Reaching forward, you press your fingers into his flesh, though hesitant and careful in case the muscle is too sore. 

The demon gasps, chest arching into your touch before releasing a shaky and pitiful whimper. 

“P-Please... so full...” He groans. You know he isn’t lying; a dark circle has formed on his shirt, damp and growing from such little stimulation.  

There’s something intoxicating about having the Avatar of Gluttony, a seemingly bottomless pit of a creature, mewling beneath you about being full. It sends a warm thrill through your body, and the excitement you feel comes to a head. Any remaining hesitancies are banished. It’s time to stop wasting time.  

You separate from Beel so that you can stand, and watch as he grits his teeth, a low growl rumbling from his chest. You can’t help the giggle that escapes you; he’s just so cute when he’s desperate.  

Beelzebub allows you to maneuver him without complaint, though his impatience grows every time you don’t touch him where he wants. Sitting behind him, you guide the demon to rest into your embrace, his head against your chest as you idly play with his hair. 

“Stroke yourself for me.” You command.  

He obeys, frantically taking hold of his cock. You watch with delight as he reduces himself to groans and whispered mutterings of ‘fuck’, hips bucking into his own fist.  

Hands slowly creep down his sides until they meet the edge of his tank, taking hold of the fabric and beginning an equally slow ascent. Inch by inch, you expose the warm skin of his torso, and again he whimpers when your hands brush against his nipples. 

“Open.” 

Beel’s lips part, tongue slightly sticking out; you believe he’s waiting for your fingers again. Instead, you push the bundled material of his shirt into his mouth, simply instructing, “Hold this for me.” 

None of the images your mind has conjured up could compare to the sight before you. A delectable blush spreads down the demon’s neck and chest, though the rosy hue is strongest around his pert and puffy nipples. Milk dribbles from the pec that you had pressed on earlier; the liquid rolls down his torso and you didn’t expect it settling in the lines of his abs to be so fucking hot.  

You need to see more. 

He is not shy with his moans, however muffled they may be, when you cup his pecs and eagerly squeeze them between your fingers. Milk springs forth in a steady stream before cascading down his torso, some joining the growing pool on his abdomen while the rest begins to drench the sheets below.  

The hand stroking his cock becomes erratic; he doesn’t even care that his hand is becoming soaked in his own lactate. It seems to spur him on, the liquid making it easier for his fingers to glide against the silken skin. You are a willing spectator in this moment, watching with awe as the demon before you loses himself completely.  

Tears stream down his face when he cums; you chastise yourself for imagining their salty flavor paired with the sweetness from his chest. Still, when he collapses against your chest, you see the pearly beads of his spend decorating his skin and mixing with his milk. And though your mind, or more likely your loins, tell you to reach out and taste the heady combination, you remind yourself to savor the moment. 

Beel’s cock has yet to soften, and it looks like you’ve barely made a dent in the swelling of his pecs. 

Your patience shall be rewarded greatly by the end of the night.

It was the first time you had witnessed the brothers, Barbatos, and him in their demon forms. Diavolo was a nervous wreck, hoping that the assortment of wings, tails, and horns wouldn’t terrify you. He hovered around you for the first few minutes after they debuted, ready to give the orders should you look upset.

You were anything but. Rather, once the initial awe had subsided, you were full of questions. He watched as the brother’s egos inflated from your eager curiosity. You couldn’t keep your hands off of them the entire night, always carefully caressing a fluttering wing, running your fingers along the grooves of their horns, or laughing when a tail would curl along your wrist. 

In turn, the brothers couldn’t keep their hands off of you either. Every time he spotted you on the dance floor, one or more brothers were practically hanging off of you. Fingers skimmed the bare expanse of your thigh before disappearing past the hem of your dress, lips ghosting over your ear and neck, fangs dangerously scraping along your skin. 

He should stop them. The longer he watches, the clearer it becomes that the brothers are losing the battle of temptation. He’s halfway across the dancefloor, the sea of demons parting before their future King. Then he hears your giggles as Lucifer spins you in place, your back now to his chest, and the Avatar of Pride pulls your ass flush to his hips. 

Your gazes meet. Lucifer is too busy marking your neck with a hickey to notice. You’re easily half the height of Diavolo, but as you lean into Lucifer’s chest and glance up at the King, he feels small. Eyes half-lidded, you stare him down as you grind your ass back into the demon behind you, biting your lower lip when you feel the hardness waiting for you.

In a room full of demons who have maimed, killed, and even eaten a myriad of humans; under the shifting blue and purple lights and thumping beat of the music, you stare Diavolo down as if you are going to devour him. An uneasy feeling slinks down the King’s spine, and he retreats back to the other side of the room. 

Does Diavolo regret allowing you to attend RAD? No.

Should he have ever let it get this far? That… he has trouble answering.

In one meager year, you have managed to entrench yourself into each of their lives in ways they never could have anticipated. All seven of his highest-ranking demons have given themselves to you, and while you have yet to use this against them or the Kingdom, Diavolo cannot deny the danger they would face if they ever fell out of your favor. 

Some nights, he can’t help but wonder if that was your plan all along. Sure, you didn’t have any memories when you first arrived, but if you were able to scheme without any recollection of your past, what did that say about your aptitude for deception? And he just allowed it to happen?

Yet with all this apprehension, he still found himself drawn to you. He was no better than the brothers, aching to keep you close at all costs, longing to hold you against him on lonesome nights. He was doing it for the good of the kingdom, he would tell himself. Keeping you close allowed him to keep an even closer eye on your powers.

Though, as he kneels before you on the floor of his private chambers tonight, he realizes just how deep he has allowed you in. You have made a home for yourself in his heart and he knows he could never make you leave. 

You sit on his bed, wearing his robe, swirling a glass of his expensive demonus in your hand as you watch him squirm in the silence. Normally, you’d allow him to rest his head on your lap, combing your fingers in his hair until he was practically purring. Tonight, however, the commanding spark he saw in your eyes that night at the party has returned.

He sits only three feet from you, but it might as well be worlds away. The lacey thong you had asked him to wear digs into his skin. He’s achingly hard, a fact he’s reminded of every time he tries to adjust his position on the floor. The thin fabric is doing its best to contain him, but when he squirms, the silk slides along his hot flesh, causing the prince to whimper in embarrassment. Such minimal stimulation has him whining like a bitch in heat. What he wouldn’t give to be able to use his own hands.

But no, you had ordered them to remain behind his back. It didn’t matter that you didn’t have a pact together, Diavolo obeys every command you give him without hesitation; another stark reminder of how much power you truly wield amongst the damned. 

“How are you feeling, my prince?” 

His head snaps up to find you leaning forward to set your empty wine glass on the floor. There’s no rush as you close the small distance between you, hand reaching out to cradle his face. Immediately, he relaxes into your touch, a feeling that both soothes and scares him greatly. 

“I’m fine…” He says, though his cock twitches impatiently at the lie.

“Brave boy,” you coo, “Trying to save face?”

Carefully, he shuffles closer to you, knocking your feet with his knees in the process, “Trying to be good.”

You laugh, gently pinching his cheek before sinking down to your knees as well. “I’m sorry for being so mean, dear,” you sigh, beginning to run your fingers along his collarbone, “But seeing you so desperate…”

Even though you busy yourself by tracing the dips and curves of his chest, Diavolo doesn’t need to see your face to know the resignation you must feel. Just when your dark spark flickered to life, you would snuff it out just as fast. He didn’t like the idea of you keeping a part of yourself hidden from him, but he knows just how much power he would be surrendering if he gave in. It’s a conflicting whirlwind of temptations versus his service to the Devildom. 

A kiss breaks him away from his speculative limbo. 

Your hand teases his cock through the thin material of the thong. The demon groans into your mouth, nearly collapsing onto you from the intense relief he feels. 

Parting from the kiss, your free hand tangles in his hair and guides him to rest his head on your shoulder. “Time for your reward, yeah? You were such a good boy for me, weren’t you?” 

He frantically nods, biting his lip as he feels your hand slide under the waistband, “Yes! So, so, good."

You push the thong down, finally allowing his cock to spring free after it nearly soaked the entire front of the garment. Diavolo hisses as you gently wrap your hand around him, thumb smearing the precum into the skin, before slowly dragging down his heated flesh. “You have such a pretty cock, my prince.~”

The pace is slow, not enough for him to cum, but he is just grateful that you’re finally touching him. He can smell the shampoo you used this morning; practically taste the remains of your perfume as it mixes with your sweat. Your voice is heaven to his ears as you continue praising his cock, his body, his desperate pleas for more. His senses are overloaded with you, his usual worries having no space amidst the pleasure you create. 

His hips stutter when you increase your pace, the wet sounds of skin grazing skin growing louder. Your hand slips from his hair and down the muscles of his back, soothing where he had been tensed this entire time. Finding the small of his back, you encourage the demon to thrust his hips. You still your wrist, letting Diavolo set his own pace as he eagerly fucks your hand. His groans and whines crescendo as the pleasure that had been denied to him hits all at once. 

He’s embarrassed at how fast he cums, hands shaking behind him as he tries to keep himself from knocking you over. You litter his cheek and neck with soft kisses, whispering sweet nothings between each one. The sudden orgasm fades, his sweat now chilling his body as his breathing evens out. He wants to drag you to bed, curled around your smaller body under a nest of blankets.

That’s why he jumps in his skin when he feels you grab his softening cock with both hands. One holds it straight while the other mercilessly stimulates his tip, palm moving in fast circles as blood returns to engorge the flesh again. He hisses in pain this time, and pulls back from your body to ask what you’re doing. 

The spark is back and the same shiver runs down his spine. 

The bottle reminds you of the old glass milk jugs you’d see in older cartoons, when the necessity of a milkman was a normal part of life. The liquid inside is white, though it is slightly thicker like a cream, leaving little milky waves on the sides as you turn the bottle to-and-fro in your hands. The glass is smooth, with no embossing or artistic label, no expiration date, and most curiously, no hastily scribbled “BEEL” to designate the sixth-born’s claim. You had figured that was the reason it had survived in the fridge so long, since no one dared to risk another gluttonous outburst from the demon, but the absence of such has only piqued your curiosity even more. 

Twisting the cap, it easily releases with a soft pop. You sigh in relief, thankful that the bottle is free from curses. Bringing the bottle closer to your face, you sniff at the contents. The scent is puzzling. It isn’t foul like spoiled milk would be, but it doesn’t have the neutral smell that you expect. There’s an underlying spice to it that is familiar. You wrack your brain, but no matter how many times you smell the liquid, the name for the mystery scent dies on the tip of your tongue.

“Well… bottom’s up!” You think to yourself as you take a quick swig from the bottle. After all, if it isn’t claimed, and the brothers have the audacity to leave you with an empty fridge, you deserve to partake in the spoils of forgotten treasure.  

If the smell was puzzling, then the taste was downright incomprehensible. Of the different beasts available to be milked in this realm, this tasted like none you have tried. Is this some kind of oat or nut milk? Come to think of it, it didn’t remind you of any of the types of milk back home either. Was this from the Celestial Realm? 

Taking another sip, you let the milk settle on your tongue before swallowing. Again, you aren’t able to place the taste. So you take another sip. And another. Another, another, another, until you’ve finished a quarter of the bottle. The flavor is sweet, but not sickeningly so. There’s a tang to it, a kick that isn’t spicy, but instead savoury. 

You don’t get a chance to continue your quest, instead being nearly toppled into the fridge by a frantic-looking Beel as he rips the container from your hands. 

“PLEASE, please tell me you weren’t drinking this!” The demon demands, protectively cradling the bottle to his chest, body half turned away from you as he curls in on himself in embarrassment. He refuses to meet your eyes, for if he did, he wouldn’t need to ask that question, damning evidence found as a milk mustache formed on your upper lip.

“Uhmm…” Hands still clutching onto the fridge door for dear life, you look at Beel in pure bewilderment, “I did?” You don’t know what’s gotten into the demon. You had double-checked that his name wasn’t on the bottle! “Is it yours?”

Beelzebub’s fingers anxiously twitch against the bottle wrapped in his arms, “Not exactly…” 

Climbing down from the chair, you now stand in front of the demon. Beel is the definition of a gentle giant, always careful despite his imposing size and strength. That’s why you’re concerned when he flinches away from you when you try to take the bottle from his hands. 

“Beel… what’s wrong?” You ask, one hand on his shoulder while the other gives a reassuring squeeze to his bicep. “Did I do something?”

The sixth-born shakes his head, “This isn’t… normal milk.” 

“Wha– What kind of milk is it?” Anxiety creeps into your voice. Did you just drink something poisonous?

With a heavy sigh, Beel finally manages to look at you. A deep blush has bloomed on his cheeks, the crimson color running down his neck. He looks like he just finished a game of Fangol, sweat beading on his forehead and his breaths seemingly erratic. “It’s mine…”

“But I didn’t see your name written– OH.” The realization hits you as you watch Beelzebub point to his own chest. Your own face begins heating up as you bury your head in your hands. “I am SO sorry Beel, I didn’t–”

A new idea jumps to the forefront. One that causes the heat in your body to flame between your legs. “So you can– you’re able to– you produce milk?”

The demon nods, one of his large hands nervously scratching at the back of his neck.

A tantalizing scenario materializes in your mind. 

You, sitting against the headboard of your bed. Beel, resting between your legs with his back to your chest. He whines as you massage his pecs, milk pebbling from his nipples before dripping down into the grooves of his abdominals. 

His hands fists his cock, the pace torturously slow as you had ordered. Every so often, his hand runs along his stomach, gathering up the spent milk before returning to stroke his shaft.

“You’re doing so good, such a good boy.~” You’d coo, pinching one of his erect nipples between your fingers. 

He begs for permission to speed up. You grant it as a reward for being good. 

He finally cums, seed spilling onto his stomach and hand as he sags against your body. He whines again when you move out from under him, letting him rest against your pillows. You settle yourself in between his legs, bending over his muscular frame to lick at his skin. 

The mixture of his milk and cum is sinful. It’s sweet and salty; simple yet savoury.

It’s familiar.

Finally, you have a name for the mysterious flavor of the milk. 

Emboldened by your newfound knowledge, and unabashed horniness for the demon before you, you decide to make your move. 

Beel looks helpless, like an abandoned puppy, tears forming in his eyes as you gently cup his face. You softly stroke your thumbs over his cheeks, catching the few tears that fall and wiping them away. Everything that needs to be said is conveyed in your loving gesture. 

You hold him like that for a minute or two before removing your hands to coax the bottle out of his grasp. He’s hesitant at first, but eventually gives it up, hand gripping his wrist anxiously as he watches you place the bottle back into the fridge. When you return to him, you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling his body against yours. His hands fall to your waist, your skin always warm and pliable under his touch. 

Pulling back from the embrace only slightly, your touch is light as you trail your fingers along his collarbones and down the expanse of his chest. “Do you always produce milk?” You ask in a whisper.

“No,” he murmurs, “Only during heats.”

Humming in acknowledgement, your hands slide underneath his pecs before you push the flesh together. Your fingers dig into his skin as you cup his breasts, your right thumb teasingly flicking at his nipple. Beel whimpers above you and the sound makes your crotch pulse with need.

Pressing a kiss to the flesh through his shirt, you ask, “When’s your next heat?”

Beel bites his lip, trying to hold in a moan as your lips move to suck at his nipple, leaving a wet spot on his shirt. “T-Two months from now.”

Reluctantly, you pull away from your demon. As much as you want to continue teasing him, you know you have to leave. There’s still shopping to do, dinner to make, and essays to write. “Promise to come to me during your next heat?”

“I promise.” 

You smile, standing on your toes to properly kiss him. “Good. Now, why don’t you go change your shirt and come shopping with me? I’ll buy you that pudding you like.”

Beelzebub matches your grin, his previous embarrassment and arousal easily dissipating at the thought of food.

Despite the still-healing wounds of Belphie’s imprisonment, you often found him napping in the attic. It’s a strange feeling for you too. The attic represented mystery; with frantic steps, you would bound up to greet the imprisoned “human” behind the iron door. When you departed from Levi’s room that morning, the memory lingered as you leisurely ascended the spiral staircase. Though no door existed to separate you two, you still found yourself hesitating at the threshold before pushing through and climbing in next to him. His body quickly found yours, arms securing tight around your waist as he groggily mumbled something unintelligible. It wasn’t long before you were dead to the world. 

That is where Beel found you two, Standing the best chance at not being metaphorically devoured, Lucifer sent Beelzebub to check up on you two after only his fourth helping, with no chance of a fifth if he could not return with results. Frightened at the prospect of being denied his usual helpings, the sixth-born gently shook your intertwined bodies and whispered your names.

You were the first to rouse, eyes bleary with sleep as you mumbled out, “Beel?”

The blurry figure of the gluttonous demon became sharper as you cleared the sleep from your eyes. “What time is it?”

Beel pouted, “It’s dinner time.”

You almost laugh as his answer is punctuated with his stomach growling. Seeing his desperate, ravenous look, it’s easy for you to put two and two together to figure out why he’s here, and more importantly, who sent him here. However, the slothful demon at your side shows no interest in waking, seemingly dooming his older brother to starve. You try to help Beel shake him awake, but he only raises his head to grumble angrily before returning to lying on your chest. 

“I’m sorry, Beel. Tell Lucifer that I’m working on waking Belphie and then we’ll be down. Don’t wait on us,” you say.

“I don’t think I’m allowed to return without you guys…”

“If that’s the case, I have a whole trove of snacks in my room you can have.”

Beel smiles and says his thanks before leaving you alone once again.

In the silence following his departure, you stare at the ceiling and try to regain some more of your bearings. The cocoon of blankets allowed the heat of your bodies to build, soothing your muscles into relaxation. Indentations from the fabric litter your body and face, you feel practically boneless, and you’re sure there’s a small puddle of drool on your pillow. The nap was so good. 

Still, you’ve practically slept the day away and want to at least get some errands done before the shops close for the night. You try to inch yourself out from under Belphie, but his grip only tightens as his gravelly voice rumbles out, “...’m not hungry.”

At this point, you become aware of the thick layer of sweat that covers your body. Amidst the blanket insulation, Belphegor still sported his jacket and full-length pants, generating enough heat to make the attic feel like a sauna. 

“Belphie, we need to get up,” you sigh as you attempt to break the blanket seal by sitting up. 

The demon is not having it, using his superior strength to pull you back down until you’re face-to-face with him. He adjusts the blankets so that only your heads are exposed to the air before pulling you closer to him than you thought possible. “No. Not hungry."

You love the demon, you really, really, do. But after several hours of intense snuggling and snoring, the smell of his breath hitting your nose makes you gag. Belphie’s soft laughs make you realize that you did in fact gag– out loud. 

“Can’t handle a little morning breath, human?” He teases, the words and his laughs only shoving more of the stench in your face. 

“Belphie, seriously!” You whine as you struggle against him, “I’m sure I’m not any better, but we’re sweaty and stinky. It’s time to get up.”

Belphegor’s hand slides down to the back of your knee and slings your leg over his waist, lazily grinding his hips into yours, “You like it.”

“Wha–” You’re cut off by the sixth-born crashing his lips to yours, tongue easily slipping into your mouth when you gasp in surprise. 

The feeling left in your mouth when you haven’t brushed drives you insane, but doesn’t seem to bother the demon as his tongue runs along your teeth, fangs scraping against your lips. His tongue is stickily hot against yours, the mix of stank morning breath filling your lungs. Belphegor’s balmy hand runs along your thigh before dipping between where your hips meet. You shiver, skin erupting in goosebumps from the coolness of your own sweat starkly contrasting against the steamy atmosphere.

Your hands rush to tangle in his hair, fingers meeting the damp strands and combing back the pieces that are stuck to his face. Sweat beads on the back of his neck, though the droplets soon become smeared when your hand moves to hold him in place. Belphegor groans when you dig your nails sharply into his flesh.

He briefly parts from your lips, whispering a pompous, “I knew you liked filth.”

“That’s– it isn’t like that–” You manage to stammer out before the demon runs his hand along your crotch. He teases you through the fabric of your underwear as he licks the sweat pooling along your collarbone. 

Belphegor laughs again, enjoying the way the flush of your already heated skin deepens from your embarrassment. “You can’t lie to me. You spent all night with that smelly otaku. Then you came to me, knowing how sweaty we get. You’re not subtle.”

He increases the pressure against your crotch, choked moans following as you desperately try not to prove him right. Using his free hand, the demon grabs the waistband of his pants and begins to push them down. “You want me to fuck you, hm? Fill you up with this filthy cock?” 

Your thighs tremble in anticipation and your stomach lurches in arousal at his words. Sensing that Belphie won’t let you go anytime soon, and too horny for your own damn good, you give in to his taunts. “Please… please fuck me.”

The demon hums his amusement, “If you feel gross now, then I’ll make sure you feel vile.”

Truth be told, you had been fucked out of your mind when you first confessed your kink to Asmodeus. You never expected it to get this far, but you should have known better when it came to the Avatar of Lust.  

Asmodeus demanded that you wear a metal cage for the last week– something about it increasing your pleasure when the time came– and he didn’t give in no matter how much you begged.  

It didn’t help that the demon was hellbent on riling you up, more so than usual. Multiple times you’ve been yanked into an empty closet or classroom by Asmo, your uniform undone with inhuman speed, only for him to leave right as you were reaching your peak.  

You think you’d be able to handle it if it weren’t for the fact that Asmodeus doesn’t have a discernible pattern. One day he spent ten minutes just teasing your cock with the tip of his finger through the metal of the cage. The next, he was on his knees, sucking on your balls until you ended up pulling him away by his hair; the damned bastard only purred in satisfaction and left with a teasing smirk. There wasn’t a day of peace, not a single day free from his lips, his tongue, his hands. 

Finally, finally, the weekend arrives and you’re ready to do anything to remove the stupid cage. Having spent the night in his room being teased for the entire night, you didn’t need to ask Asmodeus to begin. When you first awoke under his silken sheets, he was quick to usher you to where you are now. 

After tying the blindfold behind your head and your hands behind your back, Asmodeus had agreed to remove the cage if you allowed him a mini gossip/vent session first. Something about another influencer starting rumors and creating beef that’s been stressing the demon out for the last week. He had it under control, just needed to talk at someone to get it out of his head.  

Of course, you can do that, you had replied, so god damn thankful to finally be free of the constricting metal. Even if you had no idea who he was talking about, you didn’t mind listening to his rants because it meant you got to listen to his melodious voice.  

What you didn’t account for was your cock to immediately get hard as soon as the cage was removed. It seems a week of orgasmic deprivation has your body excited at the promise of relief. No big deal, except you’re so painfully erect that you can’t focus on what Asmo is saying.  

“Are you even listening to me?” 

You feel fingers threading through your hair before your head is jerked back, a bead of liquid running down the exposed column on your neck. It isn’t clear whether it is your own sweat or is from the steam of his bathroom. What you do know is that Asmodeus doesn’t care about the answer, for his tongue meets your skin and suckles on the hollow of your collarbone, where the liquid has pooled. Then he pulls away, and once again you are left alone, perched on the steps. A shiver runs down your spine, the humid room feeling colder without his body nearby.  

“Y-Yes, I’m listening!” A bold-faced lie. 

The tile clicks loudly right in front of you, and polished leather tickles the underside of your shaft. The sole of Asmodeus’s heels rests dangerously close to your balls, a warning of what’s to come. 

“Really?” He taunts, “What was the name of the devil who started this drama?” 

You swallow nervously, “Uhm.... Vepar?” 

“Wrong~” Asmo sings out before quickly applying pressure with his foot. You inhale sharply as your nerves come to life. The pain is that of multiple tiny pinpricks, piercing and searing all at once. Yet, as your balls are crushed into the cold tile, the temperature contrast causes goosebumps to erupt on the flesh of your thighs. 

The demon hums playfully, granting temporary relief as he removes his foot. “An excellent guess though! She is the quite the shit-starter,” He laughs.  

Suddenly, you’re being moved by agile hands and devilish strength until you rest on your knees, bent over with your cheek pressed against the edge of the bathtub. Instinctively you try to adjust your position, but you’re sorely reminded about the restraints around your wrists.  

You practically leap out of your skin when you feel Asmodeus’s breath against your ear. Being unable to track him by sight or sound is making you dizzy.  

“Sorry hon, you wanted me to hurt you, right?” He whispers. 

Nodding, you manage a pathetic, “Yesssss......” 

His hand takes hold of your shaft, and you whimper at his lazy strokes, impatient as tears of frustration gather in your eyes.  

“Then use your pretty little head and listen,” he grumbles, shifting your cock towards him. Then his other hand is pushing on your hip, forcing your pelvis flush against the ceramic below. You’re sprawled as flat as you can be against the steps, helpless, pliant, and exposed.  

The underside of his heel connects with your flesh again, though now he grounds the tip of your cock into the step. You grit your teeth, head falling back to senselessly plead with the crystal chandelier above. It sparkles under the soft light, refracting brilliant rainbow amidst the steam, but it does not answer your prayers. 

Though the pain is torturous, you’d be remiss to not acknowledge the pleasure building in your core. Asmodeus may be inflicting harm upon you, but it makes the blood rush to your head and pitiful drops of arousal leak from your tip.  

You can see him in your mind's eye, standing proudly behind you with his foot resting on your most sensitive part as if it were claimed treasure. He is smirking in your vision, casually raking a hand through his hair as he eyes his prize. 

Two fingers circling your hole rouse you form your imagination, and he barely dips them past the ring of muscle before you’re trembling and panting again. You’ll give credit where it is due; Asmodeus was right about the heightened pleasure from being denied for so long.  

This may become the best orgasm of your life.