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Getting hard was a nuisance for Belphegor, but not a particularly troubling one. There was nothing Belphegor couldn’t sleep away, and that included the stiffness of his cock, unwelcome because of the clean up that tending to it would entail. Fortunately, falling asleep was as simple as closing his eyes.
Until you showed up at the door of his prison.
You have always been more troublesome than you knew.
You were the embodiment of everything he resented. You were a transfer student in Diavolo’s little pet project, a naïve human who didn’t know your place.
Belphegor wanted to put you in your place. Violently, gleefully, he wanted to wipe that foolish smile off your face. Especially when you found out who he was and still, you smiled for him. Still, you wanted to help him.
The very first night he met you, he watched you descend down the stairs and flopped into bed.
It had been years since he was so uncomfortably aroused he couldn’t sleep it away. But you’ve always had a way of stirring up old feelings in him.
If only he had identified that nagging feeling in him as a guilty conscience for lying to you, day after day, and looked even deeper to find that he had been lying to himself even more. If only he had realized sooner that his hatred for your kind only grew because he needed something to suffocate his growing tenderness for you.
He could have spared you so much suffering.
Without thinking, Belphegor rolled over and pressed the bothersome erection into his cow print pillow. It wasn’t fair that he couldn’t fall asleep because he was thinking about you. It wasn’t fair that it felt good to grind himself into his pillow when he was thinking about you.
Belphegor’s cock demanded greater friction, but he was still convincing himself he wasn’t desperate for it, so when he used his hands it was only to pull his pants down to his thighs and bunch up his pillow, making it much more satisfying to thrust into.
It wasn’t fair that you were the only face he’d seen in a while because when he closed his eyes, there you were. And there he was, chasing a pleasure he hadn’t wanted in years, groaning because he hated you and it felt good to think about you. He grinded his teeth and dug his nails into the pillow like it was your head and rutted against it. He hated knowing that he wouldn’t be doing this at all if he wasn’t thinking about you.
Belphegor felt so powerless when his hot seed began spilling out of him that he had to imagine himself killing you to convince him that that was what this had all been about.
He didn’t want you. He wanted to use you. He was using you - you were working so hard to free him and he would kill you when you did. Because that was what this had all been about.
You found him in the attic that day and you never really left.
Even worse, you were always on the verge of arriving. Belphegor couldn’t stare at the ceiling until he imagined he was somewhere else anymore because now his eyes drifted ever to the door, where you might appear any moment.
He found that his arousal only settled on its own if he didn’t think of you.
He found that he was always thinking of you.
Day and night, where there was once staring at the ceiling and doing anything but “thinking about his actions,” now there was your face behind every blink. Now there were eyes shut tight and a cock throbbing with need and no sleep until he dealt with you.
When he closed his eyes to touch himself - and yes, he was really touching himself now, wrapping his hands around his cock and stroking - all he could see was you. When he opened his eyes, he would look at the doorway and imagine you finding him like this. He would think stupid things like if his hair looked good and if his cock would be the biggest you’d ever seen.
If you asked him what he had been thinking about, the only honest answer would be you, and you would probably think it was a good thing, unless he went so far as to tell you that he never let you live.
If he didn’t kill you, then it would mean you were more to him than just a pretty human plaything.
But it was harrowing to really do it, to kill you just to prove you were nothing. Why did you have to rush into his arms when you freed him? Why did you have to make his heart flutter, his cock pulse for your touch?
It was wrong, all wrong, when he hoisted your limp body over his shoulder. His arms slinked around your waist and your legs and he wished you were wearing less so he could feel the warmth of your skin with his bare hands.
He was free, he was free, and he wanted to lay you on the bed that had been his cage and undress you and he wanted to bury himself in between your legs and he wanted you to wake up and know how it felt to be burdened with a pleasure you never asked for and-
He wanted you to wake up.
He wanted you to live.
He wanted you. And if he had any chance with you back then, there’s no way he does now.
The illusion of his hatred crumbled all at once, like a tower demolished by a swift blow to its foundation, and Belphegor was rendered a meek and longing little thing. But Belphegor finds the courage to be honest, with himself and with you, and some days, it pays off.
Some days, you don’t mind him napping on your lap. It’s a wonderful little pleasure to bask in your scent, to think privately about spreading your legs so you can squeeze your thighs around his head. If you notice him inhaling the scent wafting from between your legs then you don’t give any indication of it.
When Belphegor finally opened himself up to you, you shut down. He doesn’t blame you for being wary of him. The indisputable proof of how much he cares only proved to you what brutishness he’s capable of.
The way he thinks about you has changed dramatically since then.
He used to think about grabbing your hair and fucking his cock into your mouth. Now he thinks of licking you diligently while he remains painfully hard and untouched, because if he cums before he nestles in between your legs, he will get far too blissfully relaxed and fall asleep.
He used to want you beneath him, on your stomach, so he could dig his nails into your hips and shove you into bed by the back of your neck. He used to want you on your back, wrists pinned above your head, so he could look down on you while you cried - because why wouldn’t you cry, seeing the beast he really is - and lick your darling tears.
Now he wants you to see the creature he’d like to be, is trying to be, with flustered cheeks and murmured words of affection. Some days his attempts to show you his devotion don’t reach you, and it hurts him even though he knows he has no right to feel that way, and it makes it harder next time to be brave enough to offer you a piece of his heart that you might reject, but he pushes through it. You deserve to know every nice thing he thinks about you.
Now Belphegor wants you perched above him, taking his cock however you like, teasing him if that’s what you want, using him - just use me, I’m yours, any way you’ll have me - and he wants to tell you every nice thing that crosses his mind, and if it’s too filthy, he wants you to slap him for it, and he wants you to smile while you do it.
He used to rut himself into his pillow and imagine it was you.
Now he encourages you to use his pillow whenever you need a nap. He has to force it sometimes, lulling you into drowsiness and offering you something soft to lay under your head. He doesn’t feel too bad about it, since he always gives you pleasant dreams.
He used to fantasize about creeping up on you while you sleep, pulling at your clothes until you’re bare from your chest to your thighs, submerging your consciousness further into your dreams and sheathing himself in the warmth of your body. He would snicker at your body’s pleasurable reactions to his cock and tell himself you still want him after all he’s done.
Now…He still does. He just feels a lot worse about it. But he always waits patiently for you to wake up and return his pillow so he can retreat to his bedroom, bury his face in it, and inhale your lingering scent.
Without fail, his cock seeks his attention by the time he exhales. He has long learned that it’s futile to resist when his body wants you, so he pulls down his waistband and lets his cock spring free - the cock that only you can make hard.
His eyes flutter shut as he imagines you stripping down and crawling up the bed. You tease him by flicking the head of his cock with your tongue and sucking on his balls, something he never cared for, but your eagerness makes his toes curl at the thought.
His breath hitches when he imagines you sinking onto his cock and riding him - for your pleasure, not his own. He imagines a devilish grin creeping up the corner of your lips as your righteous hand - his own reckless, guilty hand - slides up his chest, closes around his neck, and squeezes.
Belphegor used to fantasize about putting you in your place. Now he wants you to put him in his place - beneath you, at the mercy of your hands trembling from the strain of choking him, fucking him however you want, making him cum regardless of whether you care about him or not, because everything, everything you do is more than enough for him.
When Belphegor is done cleaning up and relaxed enough to fall asleep, the one thing he can’t imagine with any conviction is the thing he craves most: your dozing figure curled up in his arms.
Mercifully, he always manages to slip into a dream before it aches him too much, and finds you there.