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l0t4n · 3 months

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YEARLY CHECKUP

a/n Dr. Mal Practice, MD will see you now. Also sorry I am NOT familiar with the interworkings of the Devildom medical system, if anyone is more enlightened on the canonical aspects than I feel free to lmk. First NSFW fic posted here too - are we excited or are we excited teehee...

Contains NSFW. Dubcon (verbal consent, but power imbalance). Medical/clinical/otherwise loveless sexual contact. A little slutshaming and exhibitionism. Belphegor receiving handjob, GN reader, genitals unspecified.

It is incredibly simple to become a doctor in the Devildom. Demons are very hardy; nowhere near as finicky as humans are when it comes to the intricacies of care. Further, even if a demon contracts a serious issue, they're usually just stuck that way with no cure ever. Because of these two factors, there's no real concern for injury or death amongst patients - it virtually never happens, so they let practically anyone become a medical practitioner, no schooling or specialization required beyond on the job training. The pay is nowhere near as high as it is for human doctors because of that, but you get very few patients and a lot of time to sit about doing nothing, which is preferable for some.

Today, your job as a physician has been unreasonably hectic. Most days, you have no patients, totalling five or less a week, usually with minor ailments, many externally caused - a cold or a bad cut, neither of which you need to be especially careful with treating, since it's almost always issues that heal on their own quickly. Recently, however, you've had an inordinate number of patients for seemingly no reason - from the start of the work day until the end, you just had appointment after appointment with little time in between. It's the last patient of the day and you are fully prepared to leave, even if it requires you to cut even more corners than usual to treat them. It's already dark out, and the cold white light of the examination room sears its way past your eyeballs and into your brain, giving you a headache. Right as you rub your hands against your face to alleviate some of the pain, your patient walks in.

The sound of the door opening catches you by surprise, yet the patient says nothing as he promptly seats himself at the end of the examination bed, wax paper crinkling underneath him. He's very languid in his movements, and slouches from where he sits. It takes you a moment to look away, your sore head processing at a slower rate than normal. You swivel your chair around to face the computer on the desk beside you, pulling up his patient file quickly, as to make up for lost time. You fill the dead air in the meantime with a drawn out sigh. “Belphegor? What seems to be the problem today?”

“I fell asleep while walking down the stairs the other day, and hit my stomach hard on the way down.” His voice is quiet and sleepy. You don't really question how someone falls asleep while walking - regardless, falls are a common issue, and cycling through the potential concerns is like muscle memory to you.

“Any bruising or sharp pain?” You type his complaint into the form on the monitor before you.

“It's a little bruised, but pain-wise, it's just a bit sore…” You nod, typing the last of the notes and rising to your feet. You pull a pair of blue latex gloves from a box beside you, putting them on with practiced efficiency.

“We're going to take a quick look. Lay back for me.” You walk up beside the exam bed and motion as if you're pushing him back by his chest, without making contact. He complies, falling back easily. Your gloved hands catch the hem of his shirt, already risen up just a little, and pull it up to his ribs. His skin is pale, the light purple bruise visible on the left side of his waist, forming a line that fades out as it approaches the middle of his stomach. You press firmly across his lower abdomen, beneath his belly button, careful not to touch the injury too roughly. “Does this hurt?” You look up as you ask, only noticing then how his eyes have shut. He nods “no”, head flopping to the side after. You see now how he fell asleep going down the stairs. Returning to the physical exam, you press on both sides of his waist, just above his pelvic bones. You do this just a bit harder than before, a bit jealous that he's falling asleep and you're still on the clock, and you watch his otherwise undefined abdominal muscles flex a little bit beneath your hands. “Still no pain?” When you look up this time, he's just barely raised by his elbows, his face flushed pink - yet, he doesn't look at you.

“No,” he says it quietly, and his demeanor has totally shifted. Just moments before, he was relaxed enough to nearly fall asleep during the exam, but now he seems almost embarrassed. You look down, only not noticing where your hands rest, framing the apex of where his thighs meet his hips. The loose pants he wears do little to hide his arousal underneath. You stare uncomfortably long at his dick, noticing the light trail of black and white hair that goes up to his belly button. Once your overworked brain catches up with the situation, your head turns back up to look at him. He's fully propped up on his elbows now, and his hands are fidgeting with the pleather coating of the bed beneath him. He makes eye contact with you for a second, before glancing back away. You remember to move your hands, but right as they slip from his thighs, his own hand grips yours. A few uncomfortable seconds pass, before he says, “You can touch me, if you want.” His voice is bashful and sweet, but you don't miss the slight tremor in his voice, almost a bit sinister.

Your exhausted mental state feels almost refreshed, and before you can consider things like appropriate practitioner-patient relationship, you're pushing him up by his hips, motioning for him to lay on his back, which he does obediently, his hands nervously playing with the paper he lies on. You can only imagine what about this situation in particular made him hard - your head hurts just dully enough to deny you a solid answer. You leave your gloves on as you slowly, clinically grope his dick over his pants, the other hand resting on his thigh. He shivers and sighs beneath you, opening his legs wider for better access. Your movements are slow and methodical, careful not to show any emotion on your face. An idea hits you then - with no explanation, you stop touching him, moving back over to your desk. You feel Belphie’s eyes follow you, confused and concerned, as you pull a small packet of lubricant out of a drawer. Normally, these are used for various, non-sexual procedures, only sometimes involving the genitalia. Not today, though!

As you approach the bed again, Belphie is staring up at you worriedly, as if he's done something wrong. “Take off your pants.” You have difficulty keeping a level, emotionless tone of voice as you order him around, and you see the relief hit him, right before he leans over to roughly shove his pants and underwear down to his mid-thigh. Soon, you're standing in between his legs again, his cock bobbing against his navel in anticipation. You rip the gel packet open, squeezing a bit out onto the head of his dick. He jumps a little from the cold temperature, but quickly suppresses his shock as your gloved hand grips his shaft, thumb rubbing the lubricant across the head. He shutters again beneath you, whining at the contact, his hips rising to meet your hand while his leg blindly kicks at your side, trying to find a place to perch against you, hold you in place. You ignore it at first, but he keeps trying to wedge his knee under your arm or over your shoulder, blocked by his half-undone pants. You stop your slow movements once again, stepping back and out of his reach.

This would be easier if he didn't insist on wearing those boots. Your hand is still slick with gel, and you don't want to dirty your gloves just yet. “Take off your shoes… So we can continue the exam, of course.” He's visibly annoyed about the interruption, and rises a bit slower than before as he moves to unlace his boots, kicking them off in a hurry, before his pants follow - by the time he's laying back again, his pants are hanging off his left ankle, only his socks remaining fully on, while his knees are pulled up to his chest. He stares up at you from under his hair, already messy from the way he's been writhing underneath your touch. When you don't immediately step back over to him, he wiggles his hips lewdly in your direction. The moment your hand is back on his dick, the gel has warmed under your palm, and he's quickly arching his back in pleasure. It seems like he's afraid you'll decide not to let him finish, or that, between all these delays, your appointment together will end before then. As a result, he continually tries to show off for you - although, he could be a bit more careful with his volume.

His moans are breathy with no space inbetween, almost like panting at times. His voice pitches into a whine every time you rub over the head of his dick, and the rather slow pace you move at doesn't seem to help. He took no time getting worked up, and he's moaning like he's close - though, you doubt how much you can trust the authenticity of his vocalizations. You rub along his shaft slowly, in a very linear up-and-down pattern, your thumb pointing away from your fist to rub against his slit every time you move upwards. Your other hand is wrapped around the base of his dick, holding him in place for “examination”. It's clear he's getting tired of the pace you've set, trying to rock himself into your fist at a faster rate. You tighten your grip against the base of his cock, causing him to jolt at the pressure. Leaning over him, you move your hand to focus on the head of his dick, agonizingly overstimulating him.

“You need to keep it down. We don't want anyone interrupting our private appointment. It's unbecoming,” you say through gritted teeth. You expect him to back down at that, but he grins widely in excitement and mischief - you quickly realize, from the prospect of being found out. He immediately throws his head back, loudly moaning like a whore. Only then do you decide to quicken your pace in frustration, going from slow and methodical to quick and messy in an instant. The gel on his dick fills the room with sticky, wet noises, combined with the way he groans in satisfaction at the pace change surely leaves no question as to what's occurring now to any passersby. Still leaning over him as you roughly get him off, you take the chance to look him over - the way his fingers helplessly grip at the bed beneath him, his stomach heaving with every exaggerated moan he utters - and, most importantly, his fucked out expression, half-hidden behind his hair. His eyes are shut, eyebrows worried and, of course, his lips are parted for his frequent moans and pants to escape. A bit of drool has collected at the corner of his mouth.

He peers up at you, opening his eyes for just a second, before they close again tight, his entire body trembling. You look down just in time to see him cumming, each buck of his hips painting his stomach further as he frantically humps your fist. You continue touching him throughout his orgasm, until he's jolting from oversensitivity. You remove your hand from him, slipping your now-dirtied gloves off and unceremoniously dumping them in the trash. Your patient lay panting on the bed, half-clothed, most of his abdomen slick with cum and lube - and you're already off the clock. You place a box of tissues next to his exhausted body. “Leave once you've cleaned up. I'm done for today.” Just as you move to walk away, a hand grips your wrist, surprisingly strong. You turn to see him sitting up now, looking right at you.

“I'm not done yet. Keep me company a bit longer?”

#obey me belphegor #obey me #i shant say

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