The house was quiet—a rarity that felt almost sacred. No thunderous footsteps, no fridge raids, no sudden crashing sounds. Everyone was supposed to be out, and with the stillness pressing in around you, temptation crept in like a whisper.

With the door locked and your body already humming with anticipation, you slid under the covers, hands exploring with slow, needy strokes. Your breathing quickened, soft sighs escaping as your mind conjured a certain tall, broad-shouldered demon with gentle eyes and a mouth that always seemed slightly too focused on food… or you.

Beelzebub.

You imagined his warm hands gripping your waist, his voice low and raspy with hunger—not just the kind that made him raid the kitchen. Just as your moan slipped out, quiet but raw, your door slammed open.

“MC, do we have any—”

Beel froze mid-step, his towering frame framed in the doorway. His eyes locked onto yours, then immediately flicked down to the barely-there movement beneath your blanket. He blinked once, twice, and then his cheeks flushed a deep crimson.

“I… uh…” His voice trailed off, deeper and slower now. “You… weren’t answering, so I thought you were sleeping…”

Your heart raced. You scrambled to cover yourself, but he didn’t move. Instead, his gaze lingered, hungry in an entirely new way.

“I was just gonna ask about food, but…” he murmured, scratching the back of his neck, “you look… really good like that.”

The heat in the room thickened.

“I’ve been craving something all day,” he added, stepping closer. “And now I’m not sure it was food.”

His voice was quiet but full of intent, eyes darker now, pupils dilated.

“If you're hungry too… maybe we can share.”