Summary: The young demon Belial tries to find his place as a first year student at the vicious demon Academy. Physically weak, he must find a way to cope with the bullying of the other students and the faculty while maintaining his pride and sanity. Complicating matters are his own sometimes undemonly feelings.

Warnings: Noncon, dubcon, bondage, sadism/masochism, child abuse/partner abuse, incest/incestuous themes, toys, cross-dressing, weird body parts, slavery, language, graphic violence, torture. And I probably missed something there, so if you have squicks, stay away. Note that although there are child characters, is no underage; all characters who engage in sex are mature physically and mentally. There is more noncon and dubcon in this than purely consensual sex. I'm also playing fast and loose with mythology and religion here, but if that offends you, you probably didn't click on a story that was marked slash in the first place.

Disclaimer: I mean no disrespect to victims of real sexual violence and physical abuse in writing this, nor am I in any way encouraging what occurs in this story. The sometimes casual tone of the story is a function of the characters, not my own personal views.

He'd been small from birth, and had never heard the end of it; not from his matron, or from his sire, or even from his many siblings who never even held a hope of attaining true demonhood. They told him that he was human-like, small-horned, and weak-willed. Even when his matron was preparing to transport him to the Academy, and he'd hoped for some sort of goodbye or nugget of advice, she'd informed him that if her luck held, he would never return. Belial had formerly been of the opinion that the taunts of his family had made him tougher than your average spoiled princeling. Now, he wasn't quite so sure.

He'd appeared on what was apparently the front lawn of the Academy, where a gigantic crowd of whelps were milling about in front of a closed pair of oaken doors. Twilight was fading into morning, causing the statuary to cast oddly stark shadows on the great stone walkway where most of the whelps had congregated. None of them were any older than him; stubby horns and fuzz-covered tails attested to that. Still, they all showed off in their own ways.

There was one whelp who, instead of appearing with the small pop of magical teleportation, actually swooped in from above in the form of a gigantic black griffin, shattering a few cobblestones when he botched the landing and came down hard. And yet another, a slim whelp with bluish skin that Belial had at first thought would be easy to take in a fight, transformed before his eyes into a serpentine dragon that twined and weaved below the crowd. Belial himself hadn't quite mastered the taking of a second form, a source of great shame both to him and his family. He could see lurking in the back of his mind, and when he tried very hard then his claws lengthened and he sprouted a few golden feathers, but that was the extent of it.

A whelp whose silver hair stood on end struck a pigeon off the head of a bronze dragon; Belial could summon small sparks and embers, but couldn't much control where they went. Another whelp strutted about in a short skirt, his face painted like a human girl's, giving off an intoxicating scent; Belial couldn't even identify what sort of charm he was using to collect a small following of drooling admirers, let alone cast it himself. So he was feeling a bit inferior. It wasn't that he was weak, oh no. Belial knew that he was a very powerful demon; he was just…slow to mature. He'd come into his own soon enough.

He stood for a while, fantasizing, trying to ignore the foul-smelling smoke that was coming from topiary as a bald, black-skinned whelp cursed and frantically tried to summon water. But then something thin and scaly curled around both his bare legs, jerking him over so that he stumbled and bashed one of his horns hard against the cobblestones below. Whirling and snarling, he found a hand outstretched towards him, taloned and covered in delicate blue scales. It was the foreign whelp from before, smiling widely.

"My name is Orochi," he said, his English careful and heavily accented. Belial leapt to his feet, ignoring the hand, and bared his fangs in his best snarl. Which wasn't much, as far as they went; his teeth weren't nearly as impressive as the other whelp's.

"You tripped me!" Orochi's smile didn't waver.

"Yes," he said. "What's your name?" His confidence was unnerving.

"Fuck you!" said Belial, and that at least wiped the smug grin off of the foreign whelp's face. His feeling of victory was short-lived; Belial gasped with shock and pain as the heat was sucked out of the air around him, dropping the temperature about forty degrees. There were indignant shrieks and yelps all around as other whelps fled the cold, leaving a perfect circle empty around Belial and Orochi. He wasn't going to run; no sense in picking a fight and then running. Besides, he had a sinking feeling that he wasn't about to get out of this.

"Rude, boy," Orochi hissed softly, and Belial threw himself at him, striking wildly with his claws. But Orochi was quicker than him, skipping back on light feet as his reptilian tail lashed out at Belial, entangling him just as easily as he had before. Belial's anger quickly turned to terror as Orochi closed with him, half-dragon in an instant, twining around him further and effortlessly pinning his arms, sending them both to the ground. Emotion gave Belial power, and a small burst of flame exploded in Orochi's face. The whelp clutched at his face and let out a sound that was half a yelp and half a bestial cry, but his coils held and there was no escape for Belial no matter how he squirmed and struggled. And struggle he did, once he understood what Orochi intended, making noises that sounded almost like pleas.

First Orochi struck him across the face with a hand that was now mostly a four-clawed talon; his jawbone shattered into several red-hot pieces from the force of the blow. Before Belial could even scream, the talon forced his mouth open, increasing his agony tenfold; he couldn't bite down or do anything but gurgle as Orochi reached inside his mouth, skewering his tongue with a single claw. His own blood poured down his throat until he choked on it, the acidic taste overwhelming. Then the dragon-whelp jerked, and Belial's world briefly went entirely black, returning only in a haze of red and burst of white and pain.

Orochi roared his triumph, but the sound was faint, as if it was very far away. The claws that now raked down his face were much more real; he would have done anything to make Orochi stop, but it had gone past that point now. Belial wasn't capable of doing anything more than weakly whimpering as a forked tongue licked at his face.

Eventually the tearing did end, though the pain lingered. Belial was vaguely aware of a voice that called, "Enter," and of the creaking of great oaken doors, and shortly afterwards, warmth returned to his body. The Academy was opening, and there he was, lying there on the stones, incapable of even getting to his feet. What a joke, he thought, as conscious thought began to return through the shock and the agony. It didn't hurt any less, but he was a demon, and used to pain.

He felt around for his tongue, but it was nowhere to be found; that bastard Orochi must have taken it with him. It mattered little, though. If there was one thing that Belial could do, it was heal himself. His sire had called it a skill fit only for slaves, but it was certainly going to serve him well now. He directed a small surge of power towards his head, and felt the shallow claw marks knitting up, the shards of his jaw retreating back underneath the skin. Swallowing down the rest of his blood, he stemmed the bleeding in the back of his throat and sent as much power as he dared to the torn base of his tongue; he could have reattached it easily, but instant regeneration was a task beyond him. He'd have to wait for it to grow back in its own time.

Belial screamed in sudden, new pain as a lash fell down on his back, tearing through his tunic and laying down a stripe that pulsed with power.

"Move, whelp," said the same voice that had called for them to enter. Belial scrambled away from it on all fours, not thinking about much but escaping more pain, but it didn't help. Another lash came down, then another, and Belial fled desperately towards where he thought the doors had been, blinded by pain and panic. He ran straight into the still smoldering topiary; the demon behind him laughed and hit him yet again. Belial gave a very undignified yelp as his sensitive tail was caught by the whip, bolting off yet again and finally find his way into the coolness of the Academy. Blinking away the haze of tears, he looked around and found himself in a large, roughly hewn stone chamber filled with chattering whelps; the doors slammed closed behind him and he jumped, looking around reflexively.

His tormentor stood there, grinning. He was a small demon, his face narrow and his chin pointed. Black hair brushed his shoulder, and his large, almond eyes were the color of rich purple wine. Though the demon didn't carry any sort of whip, his tail was extraordinarily long and wickedly barbed, as well as spattered with Belial's blood. When the demon saw that Belial was watching him, he snapped his tail against the floor with a lewd wink. Shuddering, Belial turned away, and tried to concentrate on the demon that stood on a raised balcony above a pair of doors, who seemed to be addressing the whelps.

"Welcome to the Academy," his magically amplified voice was saying. He didn't sound or look particularly welcoming; in fact, his slumped posture and half-lidded eyes suggested extreme boredom, with a side of faint disgust. When Belial examined him more closely, he saw that the demon lacked horns, fangs, or any other demonic features; even his eyes were a dull dark brown. He looked like a young human plucked off the streets, but of course he wasn't. Belial couldn't smell the taint of human at all, and even a half-human's stench would have been easy to pick up.

"Alright, there aren't really that many rules here…we try to keep a relaxed atmosphere. But I do have some advice. Do as you're told, unless you think you can get away with slacking off. Don't die, if you please, because I despise paperwork and I don't need any more messengers from angry matrons. Bitch about your homework and I guarantee that someone will give you something to really cry about. Oh, and respect the slaves, because they all have permission to fry your dumb asses if you think that you don't have to listen to anything that wears a collar. Get grabby and you'll regret it, there's a whelp every year who can't seem to get that through his thick skull. Now go on, through the door, you need to get your classes assigned." Belial listened without really comprehending, mildly confused. The rest of the whelps were stampeding away, and he was dragged along with them, until he found himself in a new room, slightly smaller, where a demon sat at an imposing stone desk with a stack of parchment, twelve smaller areas were partitioned off in the back, and the entire place stunk of human.

The source of the smell was perched atop the desk. It was a human with tan skin and a glistening metal collar. Not frightened in the least (scared humans gave off a very distinctive scent), it watched the approaching whelps with narrowed eyes. But Belial didn't have time to consider the slave. He realized that he was about to be placed in his class. The Academy taught three disciplines: War, Sorcery, and Academia. Since he was scrawny and not particularly inclined towards memorization and research, Belial wanted to be put into Sorcery, but he knew it wouldn't be his choice to make.

Beyond the three disciplines were different levels of power, as well; four classes for every discipline, with the First Class being the strongest and the Fourth Class being the weakest. Belial was smart enough not to hope for First Class. Not only would he never qualify, demons like Orochi would inhabit the First Class, and they'd slaughter him. No, Fourth Class was probably what he'd get, and he would be grateful for it. Once he came into his power, he could always be moved up.

As he moved up in the line that had formed, the human became impossible to ignore. That smell of theirs was both vile and strangely intoxicating. Demons carried faint, personal scents about them, marks of age, rank, and gender, but humans smelled overpoweringly of sex and sweat and red, animal blood. Though humans were easy to enslave and control and entertaining besides, few demons kept them for that very reason. This particular specimen not only stunk, it was also extraordinarily bold; instead of cowering, it leaned into the occasional pats of the seated demon with a practically haughty expression. The demon himself was an odd specimen, even paler than Belial himself, and wearing a pair of human eye glasses.

"You like my pet?" the demon asked, and it took Belial a moment to realize that not only was the demon addressing him, but that he had reached the front of the line without realizing it. He froze, remembering the earlier demon's remark about respecting the slaves. Belial knew what some demons like to do to those who eyed their property. The human slave met his eyes and grinned.

"Look at him tuck in his tail, Master. He's scared you're going to freeze his balls off." Belial twitched. The nerve of the creature! But of course he couldn't touch it himself, and the pale demon seemed amused rather than angry at the insolence.

"Never fear, whelp. You can look all you want. The little slut likes it." He caressed the slave under the chin in a gesture that carried unnerving fondness. "Now, could you give me your name?" His tongue was almost back, but not enough to allow speech; he opened his mouth, demonstrating his problem, and tried to ignore the laughter of a whelp behind him, who must have witnessed the spectacle.

"You have been through the mill," the demon remarked mildly, and then snapped; the rest of Belial's tongue sprouted within seconds and a sharp, but not unpleasant minty flavor filled his mouth.

"Belial, spawn of Agares," he choked out.

"I could've guessed. Very popular this century…you're the seventh one so far. Now, where to put you…" He peered over his glasses at Belial, his eyes beginning to glow blue with power. The air chilled, and Belial stiffened, reminded of Orochi, though it didn't become painfully cold. That wasn't the worst of it, though; the chill began to spread within his mind, numbing it, as something small and spiderlike ran across his thoughts and memories.

"You have definite aptitude for sorcery," the demon murmured softly, his gaze never wavering. "Set your matron's tail on fire at thirty years old, did you? Hah!" Belial began to shiver, both from the cold and from the unnerving sensation of his century of life becoming an open storybook for a strange demon.

"Don't be a bitch, he isn't hurting you," the human said to him, and Belial flushed, realizing that his discomfort was showing on his face. Soon afterwards the strange sensations in his mind ceased, and the pale demon tapped a long fingernail on his desk in order to get Belial's attention.

"Sorcery, Second Class," he said, motioning towards one of the areas. Belial looked past his hand, saw the group already gathered there; the skirted demon, the fire-starter, Orochi.

"I…Second Class?" he croaked, sure that there had to be a mistake. He wasn't Second Class material, not yet; the way Orochi had beaten him earlier surely attested to that.

"You already know that this isn't up for negotiation, whelp," said the pale demon crisply, and the human added,

"Yeah, move your ass, you're holding up everyone else!"

"But I'm not strong enough!" he protested, panic momentarily overriding the preservative instinct that told him to just obey the older demon.

"Of course you are. You simply lack maturity, and that will come with time; the talent's there. I couldn't possibly put you in Third Class. If your classmates are more skilled than you, then that will only motivate you to improve and apply yourself to your studies. Now go."

"I'll die before—"

"Go, whelp, or I'll kill you myself!" the pale demon snarled, hands suddenly crackling with power. Belial yelped in surprise and terror at the sudden change of persona, and he wasn't the only one; the human slave threw himself off the desk and onto the floor, curling into a protective ball as if he expected hail to rain down from above. Belial ran for his group, thankfully not pursued by pain, and watched from relative safety as the pale demon pulled the slave back onto the desk and spoke with the next whelp in line as if nothing had occurred.

Orochi was trying to catch his eye, but Belial doggedly ignored him, though he did catch an involuntary glimpse of his own black tongue clutched tightly in one of his talons. More whelps joined the group as time passed, agonizingly slow; the griffin was thankfully sent into War, First Class, but the silver-haired bolt thrower came to stand next to Belial, his sharp ozone scent almost drowning out the sickeningly sweet perfume of the skirted whelp.

In fact, the smell was getting steadily stronger, and Belial soon felt a furred tail wrap itself around his leg as the whelp sidled closer to him, resting a clawed hand gently on his shoulder.

"Hey, stud," he whispered. "What're you called?" Belial was tempted to snarl a curse in response, but remembered vividly how that had turned out before…and besides, this whelp hadn't insulted him or hurt him, yet. He would have to make friends here if he wanted to survive.

"Belial," he said. "And you?"

"Mmm. You can call me Pandora, because honey, I wanna open your box." The whelp's smile splintered in the face of Belial's withering look, and he stuck out his lip in an exaggerated pout. "Fine. It's Sitri, you humorless bitch." Moving a little closer, he stuck his nose between Belial's shoulder and his neck, breathing in deeply, scenting him. Blond hair that smelled of flowers brushed up against Belial's cheek, and he went suddenly rigid as most conscious thought was erased from his mind.

"You're really cute," Sitri murmured absently. "Shame that Orochi guy's already staked his claim."

"Eeh?" Belial whimpered, finding that statement mildly discomfiting but not knowing why. The skirted whelp giggled and nuzzled against him.

"Morning Star, you are adorable. I don't think I can resist for much longer…" The hand that had been so gentle before latched onto his head cruelly, and Belial whimpered again as he felt blood trace a path down his neck. Sitri kissed him, as first light and chaste, but then the whelp latched onto his lower lip and began to suckle on it; there was a wolf whistle from somewhere, but as Sitri's perfume washed over him in dizzying waves all he could think about was more. He just about fainted when Sitri's other hand slipped under his tunic and teased the base of his tail; he moaned softly, but instead of going further, Sitri drew away. Belial shook, abruptly bereft, at least until he caught sight of Orochi looking none too pleased and the scare sent him back to reality.

Flattening his ears, he backed away, at first confused, and then outraged when he realized what had happened.

"Don't touch me!" he snarled, rather belatedly, but Sitri wasn't even paying attention to him any longer. He was talking with Orochi, his amorous tail curled contritely around his own leg.

"I know, I was a bad girl," he purred, and Belial boggled that any demon would ever use such a term to describe themselves. "He's just such a delight…couldn't help but take a little taste. Just a little taste."

"Understandable," said Orochi, though the sudden coolness in the air and the hardness of his eyes suggested otherwise. "Something could be arranged."

"Name your price, hon," Sitri said, with a feline purr, and Orochi's gaze suddenly flicked to towards Belial.

"We can discuss terms later," he said quietly, and Belial, still a bit rattled by Sitri's spell, realized for the first time that they were talking about him. And though he didn't dare say anything to Orochi's face, he had a feeling that it meant nothing good.