The night had wound down, the last crumbs of cake devoured and the laughter of his brothers echoing into memory. Beelzebub walked slowly through the House of Lamentation, one hand resting on his stomach, already craving a midnight snack despite the feast he'd consumed. His birthday had been warm, filled with food and family—exactly the kind of celebration he liked best.

He padded up the stairs toward his room, thinking maybe he’d sneak in a nap before raiding the kitchen again.

Then he opened the door.

And stopped dead in his tracks.

You were there—sprawled across his bed in nothing but your skin, your body glowing softly in the dim lamplight. The sheets clung to your curves like whispers, framing you like a dream conjured straight from desire. But what truly rooted Beel to the floor was the way you looked at him—like you wanted to eat him alive. Your eyes burned with a sultry hunger, lips curled in a slow, wicked grin that sent a jolt straight to his core.

His hand, still hovering near his stomach, dropped to his side. His eyes widened, blinking once, twice, as though unsure if this was real—or some fantasy brought on by too much cake and not enough sleep.

“You…” he murmured, voice rough and deep, like gravel warmed by the sun. “You’re… really here?”

You shifted on the bed, arching just slightly, a slow, teasing motion that left nothing to the imagination. That naughty look in your eyes deepened—a feast of flesh, laid bare for the glutton of gluttons. You didn’t say a word. You didn’t have to.

Beel’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow. His face flushed—not out of embarrassment, but with something heavier, deeper. He was a demon of appetite, after all. And you had just become the most delicious thing in the room.

He stepped forward—slowly, heavily, like a mountain moving closer—and shut the door behind him with a low thud. His gaze never left you, intense and unwavering, equal parts gentle and ravenous.

“…Are you sure?” he asked softly, voice laced with restraint and raw hunger. “Because once I start… I won’t want to stop.”

A beat passed, your only answer the beckoning arch of your brow and the subtle parting of your thighs.

The last thread of hesitation snapped.

Beelzebub crossed the room in two strides, his massive frame casting your body in shadow and heat. The hunger in his belly twisted, redirected, wild and needy—not for food this time, but for the warmth of skin, the intimacy of touch, the indulgence of you.

And on his birthday, of all nights, he knew exactly what he was craving most.