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samsaurwrites · 2 years

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Truth or Dare (Belphie x Reader x Beel NSFW Oneshot)

Belphie art by Saphire240400

▶ PLAYING ~ ❝ MIND GAMES ❞ "You had lost the game before it had ever even begun."

Truth or Dare (Belphie x fem!Reader x Beel, ~3k words)

Agreeing to a game of Truth or Dare with the youngest two demon brothers may not have been your best idea...

@asmos-pet, @blueparadis (thank you so much for organizing this!! i had a ton of fun participating 😏)

Tags: Belphegor Being a Little Shit (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Mean Belphegor (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Dom Belphegor (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Soft Dom Beelzebub (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Beelzebub Has a Large Penis (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Truth or Dare (but make it sexy), Threesome - F/M/M, Attic Club Sandwich, Mildly Dubious Consent, Blindfolds, Dirty Talk, Oral Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Size Kink, Extremely Dubious Consent, Inappropriate Use of Demon Powers (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Double Penetration, Under-negotiated Kink, Implied Marathon Sex, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

Read here or on AO3.

You had lost the game before it had ever even begun.

You should have known by the look on Belphie’s face when he’d suggested it, the way his lips twisted into a syrupy sweet smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. You should have known by the way Beel glanced at his brother, the way he looked at you, sheepish and unsure.

But you agreed. Ignored the butterflies in your stomach—the ones that wriggled and writhed and warned, the ones that made your legs tremble as you climbed the spiral staircase up to the attic.

“So,” you begin, shifting on the plush little pillow they had given you, seated on the floor near Belphie’s bed. “It’s just Truth or Dare? Like we play back in the human world?”

“Yeah,” Belphie says, smirking lazily over at you from his own pillow. “And if you don’t want to answer or do the dare—” he sets down a large bottle of demonus and a single shot glass between the three of you. “—then you drink.”

You should have realized—should have known the dangerous game you were getting yourself into—when your heart lurches in your, when nerves steal your voice and, for a moment, all you can manage is a small nod.

You really should have known.

“Okay,” you say eventually, nodding again, “who goes first?”

“Me,” Belphie says, smiling again while he leans forward. He braces one elbow on his legs, props his chin up on his hand, and doesn’t take his eyes off you for a second. “Truth or dare?”

“Um,” you hesitate, glancing between the two of them—Beel, relaxed back against the foot of the bed, one knee bent up towards his chest, watching you intently; Belphie, drumming his fingers against his cheek, waiting. “Truth.”

“Boooooring,” Belphie drawls, rolling his eyes. “Fine, let me think…”

He trails off, makes a big show of thinking; he narrows his eyes, sucks his teeth, tilts his head one way, then the other, before his eyes flick over to his twin, meeting his gaze for a fraction of a second before they return to you.

His smile turns predatory. “Have you ever touched yourself at school?”

“W-What?” you splutter. Heat floods your chest, your cheeks, the back of your neck. “No—I-I… No.”

The twins are quiet for a long moment—a moment they spend gauging your reaction, the set of your shoulders, the way you’ve curled in on yourself, just a little; it’s a moment you feel in your chest, in each frenzied thud of your heart, each fluttering wing beat trapped in the pit of your stomach.

You glance between them, open your mouth to say something, to try and fill the silence with something other than the sound of blood rushing behind your ears, but Belphie speaks up first.

“Beel’s turn~” he says, voice lilting with twisted glee.

You turn your head towards the older twin, and for the first time, you notice he’s blushing too, a soft pink that colors his cheeks, the bridge of his nose.

“Truth or dare?” he asks you, voice low and thrumming.

“Me again?” you look to Belphie, who merely shrugs, then back to Beel.

He nods.

You really should have known.

“U-uh… Dare?”

As soon as the word tumbles out of your mouth, you regret it. Wish you could snatch it out of the air; wish you could shove it back down your throat, down to join the butterflies roiling in your stomach.

But you can’t, and Belphie’s grin grows impossibly wider.

“Sit on his lap,” he says, urges, basking in the heat of your embarrassment, your discomfort.

You shift onto your knees, start to stand, to walk over to Beel and just get it over with—it’s only a game, after all—but Belphie grabs your wrist. He yanks you down, makes you fall, knees impacting on the soft carpet.

“Crawl,” he says, watching you with half-lidded eyes.

You stare up at him, eyes wide. “I… Th-that wasn’t part of the dare.”

“It is now,” he says, then lets go of your wrist and shrugs. “Drink, if you don’t want to do it.”

You eye the bottle of demonus. Mutter a short ‘fine’ under your breath and swallow down what’s left of your pride—a bitter taste the coats the back of your tongue, that has an insidious heat tingling between your legs—and crawl to Beel.

You can’t bear to look at him, at either of them. But you can feel them looking at you.

“C-Can I…?”

Thankfully, he doesn’t make you finish the sentence, lowering his leg so that you can climb onto his lap, so that you can face him and straddle his hips. You bite down on your lip, unsure of what to do with your arms, so you hold them close to your chest, back straight, shoulders tense, trying not to take too much notice of how wide your legs are spread around him.

“Good girl,” Belphie hums from behind you, much closer than he was—so close you jump. He smooths his hands down your arms, palms hot against your bare skin, wrapping his fingers around your wrists, guiding them up and around his brother’s neck. “Your turn.”

You drag your gaze away from Belphie’s hands, away from the slender fingers that rest against your pulse, to lock with eyes with Beel. Find that you can’t do anything but stare into his intensely violet eyes—eyes that threaten to swallow you whole, if you let them.

“Beel,” you say. “Truth or dare?”

Belphie squeezes at your sides, toying with the edge of your shirt at the same moment Beel’s hands find your hips, at the same moment they start to knead into your flesh and draw you closer.

“Truth,” he says.

It’s hard to think—with them like this, so close like this. With their hands all over you.

“Did… Did Belphie make you play this game?”

“No,” he says, wetting his lips with his tongue. “I wanted to play with you too.”

The way he says it, voice low and gravely and hungry. The fact that you’re straddling him, that Belphie’s arms have wound themselves around your waist. Those words. It all has you clenching around nothing.

“My turn,” Belphie murmurs, chest flush with your back. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, breathes in the scent of your hair, your skin. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” you say, but your voice wavers, warbles when he sighs against your neck.

“Ah, ah,” he murmurs. “Beel just did truth. Can’t do that twice in a row.”

You don’t remember that being part of the rules, but you can find it in yourself to argue.

“D-Dare, then,” you stammer.

When he kisses your throat, you feel him smirking. “Let me blindfold you.”

Your breath catches in your throat, sticks there like a rock. Your pulse hammers in your chest—so hard, you know they must hear it, that they must feel it. You can’t get anything out past the cotton candy fog in your head and the ringing in your ears, so you nod.

Belphie shifts behind you, and then he draws a piece of fabric over your eyes, forcing them shut. He’s gentle when he ties it, has Beel hold your hair so it doesn’t pull when he cinches it tight against your skull.

You feel yourself swaying, steady yourself on Beel’s shoulders.

“Truth or dare?” Beel asks, and you know he’s talking to you.

“Truth.”

From behind you, “how often do you touch yourself?”

You stiffen, fingers twitching at Beel’s shoulders, mouth opening and closing soundlessly, fumbling for something, for anything.

“I… I don’t want to answer that.”

“Fine,” Belphie murmurs, breath hot against your ear. He releases your waist, and then you feel the cold press of the bottle against your lips. “Open.”

He presses his fingertips up underneath your chin, tilting your head backwards until it rests against his shoulder. Then he pours—too much, too fast—into your open mouth. You struggle to keep up, to gulp down the demonus that stings in the back of your throat, tasting like berries and spice and heat.

He pulls the bottle away—finally—and you cough and splutter, feel demonus dripping down your chin, rolling down your neck in amaranthine rivulets. The buzz sets in fast—far faster than you expect. Flowing through your veins, settling into your muscles, filling your thoughts with a distracting static.

“Who do you think about when you do it?” his voice is like silk, ghosting across the shell of your ear, low and lilting while Beel laps at the demonus trailing down your throat, sucking at your pulse point, tracing the hollow of your throat with his tongue, making you whimper.

“That… That’s two questions, Belphie,” you whine.

You. Both of you—just like this.

“Answer,” he says, hands skimming up and down your sides, “or drink.”

“I-I don’t—” you stammer, shifting your hips, squirming in Beel’s grip. The hands. The tongue. The heat. It’s too much. “I don’t want to answer that either.”

The bottle is back. “Then drink.”

You do. Or, try to. You swallow deep, tears welling up in your eyes, spilling over in time with the burning in your throat, in between your thighs. You gulp, drink and drink until Belphie is satisfied and Beel is left to clean up the mess you’ve made of yourself. When he takes the bottle away, you’re reeling, gasping.

“Truth or dare?” Beel asks, murmurs against your neck.

“Dare,” you choke out, suddenly very aware of the hardness pressing into you from underneath, from behind.

“Kiss him,” Belphie says, fingers twisted in your hair now. You feel hands on your face—Beel’s—thumb brushing across your cheekbone, over the plush of your bottom lip.

“Okay,” you whisper, and then his mouth is on yours. Greedy. Demanding. Hungry. His tongue dives into your mouth, licking and tasting, sucking the demonus from your tongue. He traces the shape of your teeth, groaning into you, intertwining his tongue with yours. Swallows down every gasp, every little whimper.

You’re drowning. In the way he rocks his hips into yours, the way he grinds his length against you—the way he tastes you, the way he devours. You’re lost. To the feel of Belphie’s hands under your shirt, palming your breast, teasing your nipples, nipping at the skin of your shoulders, sucking dark bruises along the column of your throat.

“Truth or dare?” Belphie asks as Beel pulls back and breaks the kiss, letting you breathe again.

“T-Truth,” you gasp, chest heaving up and down, arching into Belphie’s touch.

“Do you like what we’re doing to you?” he asks, twisting one nipple between his forefinger and thumb, grinning when you yelp. “Do you like it when we touch you like this? When we share you like this?”

You nod, nearly frantic, struggling to hold back the pathetic noises that fall from your open mouth.

“Say it,” Beel urges, “need to hear you say it.”

Oh, you really should have known.

“I like it,” you breathe.

Beel growls, a strangled sound low in his throat, grabbing tighter onto your hips, grinding your needy little cunt against his clothed cock. You suck in a gasp. Rock your hips against him. Dig your fingernails into his shoulders. Whine at the feeling of him—so thick, so hard—underneath you.

“Truth or dare?” Even Belphie sounds affected now. Breathy. Voice thick and heady.

Needy.

“Dare,” you whisper, voice breaking half-way through the word, head falling back against Belphie’s shoulder.

“Let us fuck you.”

Your whimper is all the answer they need.

You’re being lifted before you realize it, carried over and laid flat on your back on the edge of Belphie’s mattress. They peel of your clothing, drag your shirt up and over your head, fingertips lingering on your ribs, your thighs as they pull down your shorts, your panties, half-soaked through because—fuck, you’re wet, Beel groans.

Big hands—Beel’s hands—press your legs further apart, keep you open while he squeezes at the plush of your thighs. You feel breath, hot against your core, and then he’s licking you, laving his tongue over and around your swollen nub, lapping at slick that coats your folds, holding your hips in place while you twitch and writhe.

“Open,” Belphie grunts, smearing the head of his cock against your lips.

Your body reacts before your mind can, steeped in a fevered haze, mouth popping open, tongue dipping into the salty pre-cum that beads at the tip. He groans when he sinks into the wet heat of your mouth—an absolutely obscene sound that has chills rippling down your spine, heat tingling between your legs.

When you push back against his hips, when you shy away from the length prodding at the back of your throat, he grabs both your wrists and pins them to the mattress, binding them together with his belt.

“Keep them there,” he growls, bucking into your mouth, making you gag and choke, clench around the fingers that Beel slides inside you. He pumps in one, then two, scissoring them, stretching you open while he suck as your clit.

Belphie’s hand wraps around your throat, holding you down while he fucks your mouth, while he praises you for being such a good cock sucking whore. Pressure builds in your gut, spiraling tighter, brighter, and when Belphie drives his cock all the way in, when he gags you with it and holds you there, rutting into your face—panting and cursing and moaning your name—you cum on Beel’s fingers, his tongue.

Belphie pulls out of your mouth, lets you splutter and gasp for air, just barely conscious of the fact you’re being pulled upright, that Beel loops your tied arms around his neck and maneuvers you on top of him, straddling his hips.

“Need you,” he pants, tearing the blindfold off, guides your hips down and nudges at your entrance. “Need you so bad.”

He pushes in, just past the ring of muscle that struggles to accept him.

It burns—punches the air out of your lungs because he’s big.

“B-Beel,” you gasp, tightening involuntarily because it hurts. “S’too much—s’too much—”

He grunts, eyes squeezed shut, bottom lip trapped between his teeth. His grip is unrelenting, pulling you down slowly, feeding inch after inch into your hole, forcing your legs wider around his hips, stretching your pussy open around his cock.

He’s only halfway in when you feel Belphie prodding at your puckered hole.

“Wai—” you choke on your next breath, eyes rolling into the back of your head when Beel bucks his hips up into yours, as Belphie pushes harder against your ass. “Wait, wait—” you babble, beg, squirming, struggling against the belt, the grip on your hips. “—slow, I can’t, I can’t—s-sto—”

Belphie clamps his hand over your mouth.

“Relax,” he hisses into your ear, and a sudden, overpowering wave of lethargy washes over you. His voice lulls you, coils around your mind and drags it down into a heavy fog. His voice soothes you, makes your eyelids heavy, makes your muscles unclench—lets Beel bottom out, fully sheathed in your fluttering pussy, lets Belphie pop the tip of his cock inside your ass and slide further inside.

You drift in and out of consciousness. Head lolling back against Belphie’s shoulder, arms hanging limp around Beel’s neck. In and out of pleasure. Pain. Stretch and fill. You hardly recognize your own voice, the weak, strangled noises barely audible past Belphie’s hand.

They use you. One fucking in while the other pulls out. Holding you captive between them.

“See?” Belphie grunts, abandoning his hold on your mouth to grip your throat. To squeeze while he ruts into you. “Isn’t it so much better when you just give in?”

“So tight,” Beel groans, right in your ear.

“What a fucking slut,” Belphie hisses in your other ear.

Gorgeous—and so goddamn noisy, they whisper. So perfect—making such a mess for us. Fucking harder. Faster. You’re melting, weeping, fucked out of your mind. Feel so good—our filthy little cocksleeve. In time now. Fucking you open. So full, so fucking full. So good for us—our needy little fuck toy.

When you cum again, you can’t even warn them, just a choked whine, just a fluttering of your walls, a clenching that has them both spilling inside of you a moment later, Beel crushing his mouth to yours, Belphie sinking his teeth into your shoulder.

Your eyes slip closed… then open.

You’re on your side, back to Beel’s chest, head tucked into Belphie’s neck, breathing heavy and achingly empty. They stroke your hair, trail their fingers across your flushed and sweaty skin.

Closed… Open.

Belphie kisses you. Parts your lips with his tongue. Moans into your mouth. Beel grinds against your ass, still hard, sliding through his brother’s release that leaks out of you.

Close… Open.

You whimper. Push weakly against Belphie’s chest, cry when Beel’s fingers find your clit, when searing pain-streaked pleasure burns through you.

“Shh,” Belphie soothes, hiking your leg up around his waist, dragging the tip of his cock up and down your soaking folds. “Just relax… we’ll take good care of you.”

The lethargy hits again, dragging you deeper.

Close… Open.

They’re inside you again. Rolling their hips into yours soft and slow… It feels good. Mind-numbingly good. The way Beel holds you tight against him. It feels good. The way Belphie’s tongue dances with yours. The way it’s sloppy and languid and soft. It feels so fucking good—

Close… Open.

You’re cumming again. And again. Over and over again as they bully open your insides, molding them to the shape of their cocks—you lose count. Lose your fucking mind while your eyes roll back. While tears stream down your cheeks.

They fill you. Your mouth, your ass, your pussy—with fingers and tongues and cocks and cum. They mark you. Paint your skin with hickies and bruises in the shape of their teeth.

Close… Open.

Belphie kisses you again, licking along your bottom lip. “… Truth or dare?”