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You run into him when you're picking berries.
You can almost remember your mother's voice in your ear as she taught you which were poisonous and which were not, to watch out for colouring and appearance, all twelve harvests ago.
The leaves crunch under your feet, birds rustling amidst the trees as you move deeper and deeper into the forest. Bleats and chirps from the animals nearby announce your presence, used to the intruder, and you clutch the straw-woven basket in your hands as you move, goodies covered by a piece of muslin cloth.
The leather footwear you wear is new; squeaks as you move. In a forest being silent means survival. But you are human and well aware to go mute once the forest does too.
So when the animals go silent, you finally remove your footwear. Straighten your shoulders and survey the area, bark and leaf in your vision. Nothing is heard at first.
Then, the rustle begins.
The forest's soul goes silent as the sound approaches. Something heavy, something foreboding, that even the predators have dared not to approach. The thuds resemble an elephant's; you prepare your basket.
But then out of the trees comes man.
Tall, you notice at first, and he looks quite grumpy. Furs hang on his broad shoulders, and then his immense size comes to your notice next. Hair as fiery as the setting sun on his head, and violet-backed starling bird for eyes.
"......You're not an elephant."
He looks unimpressed at the comment, but ignores it. Eyes rapidly darting around until they fall on your basket. You see him swallow and realise what you should do.
"Here." You say, offering him the basket of berries. "You can have—"
The man snatches it before you can complete your sentence. Rude, you want to say, but he picks up a fistful of the fruits in his hand and shovels it in his mouth. Some fall on the forest floor at the rough handling. The muslin is discarded.
You sit quietly and watch him eat.
He must be really hungry.
Juice drips down his lips and chin, pooling in the column of his throat and the depression of his clavicles. You, having concluded that this is no beast, finally put down your footwear and welcome the cool leather on your skin again. The basket falls on the earth in front of you. You look towards the man.
Sense seems to have been revived in him, because now at least he has the decency to look sheepish.
"Sorry," he mumbles, clearing his throat. "I was really hungry, and uh, thank you."
"Don't worry." You wave with your hand as you stand again, having finished looping the last of the straps in the soles. "I was going to give it to the deers anyway."
"Have you seen them around?" He blurts, and you appear dumbfounded.
"Uh, yeah, before your footsteps came and they ran away." You shake your head, picking up the muslin and gingerly taking your basket from him. "To the river, I'm pretty sure."
He looks around and takes a deep inhale.
"Thank you." He mumbles, and then strides into the undergrowth, each steps heavy with intent.
Like an elephant's footsteps.
You watch him leave, and then depart towards your home.
Hunger often turns men into monsters.
And in your case, berry-craving ones.
You're taking an evening walk when you cross him again.
Deer follow you, squirrels and birds trail your path. Foxes laugh and the wind howls. There's a scarf around your neck to protect you from the wind which seems to have taken on a slight chill, preceding the arrival of autumn. And like the squirrels, you must stock up on supplies. Not for you but others who may find themselves at your doorstep. Out of the several things drilled into you as a child, being a good host for the lost stood out amidst everything else.
You traverse the winded-down route, feet finding the correct path without having to look twice. You walk past three bushes and then wonder as to why they have been stripped bare. Even squirrels leave some for the others. And bears who eat a lot don't traverse this area much.
A huff escapes; you set out in search for more.
Evening means winding down, for some it means coming alive.
Leopards jump down from branches at twilight, and a small knife isn't exactly a good enough weapon. The leaves rustle under your feet as your pace increases, the basket light. You swing it in annoyance as you search. You find the man then, again, sitting underneath a tree, devouring berries.
He looks up at you.
Swallows, then takes in the empty basket in your hand.
"You could have at least left some out for the animals."
He gulps. "M'sorry." He says, and you decide to leave it at that.
You shift your weight on your feet, wrap the scarf around you again as the wind gets colder. The man swallows the last of the fruits and gets up. His frame swallows the view of the trunk against which he was resting. He has the decency to appear sheepish. "I'll leave some next time. I'm very hungry."
You survey him with furrowed brows. "You could hunt deer again." You mutter, and look at your nails with dirt still stuck underneath them. You had buried an animal last night with only half a skeleton left, bone stripped clean and cracked open half a mile away from your home. "Or live in civilisation."
"You don't."
"I do not wish to," you say, shaking your head. The stranger's face still has his lips in a thin line, red juice on the corner.
You stand on your tip-toes without thinking; swipe at the stain with your thumb. The man'e eyes widen. When your feet finally meet the earth again do you realise your audacity.
"I'm sorry!" You squeak, clutching your basket tightly. "I-I didn't mean—"
"It's alright." He interrupts, face flat again. Then his gaze falls on the purple on your thumb, and he picks up your arm with his hand, and the heat of his skin is felt through the fabric on your arm. He takes your thumb and licks it, tongue wet and firm and hot. Closes his eyes as he drops your hand, savours the taste, minute as it may be.
You try to ignore the shudder wracking your body.
"You live around here?" You inquire, watch him shake his head in refusal.
"I'm a traveller." He says when the silence gets unbearable. "What about you?"
"I live here."
"Oh." He wets his lip. "What's your name?"
"_____." You say. It's been a long time since you've spoken it. "And your's?"
"Beelzebub."
The sky turns orange-red above you.
You're reminded of the time. "Well, Beelzebub, I'll see you around. I gotta get home." Adjusting your clothes and your basket, you take a few steps back. "See you around. Get home before dark."
"Likewise." He mumbles, and the sound is so low that it nearly blends in with the forest.
He stands, then turns around. Walks into the forest again as if he owns it. You leave as well, suddenly in a hurry. The wind rushes past your ears as you break out into a sprint, the scarf fluttering behind you. You absentmindedly swipe at your lips with the same thumb he had licked before.
Beelzebub, beelzebub, Beel, beel. You let the name roll on your tongue and taste it as you get home.
The third time he is considerate enough.
You run into him again, and briefly think that he's stalking you. Because the routes are well-travelled by you, and no two-legged beings approach this path except you.
And what do they say, ah, that the scariest beings walk on not four but two feet?
But you cannot bring yourself to give two fucks. So with your basket you traverse the path. Your usual companions are missing, probably because of preparations for the harsh winter. Leaves have started to brown, some dropping on your head and clothes which you have embarrassingly mistaken for a spider more than once. At least the forest will spill no secrets about your loss of composure.
If Beelzebub has taken all the berries again, you will throw your basket over his head and strangle him with your scarf. Even if he's twice your size and has a breadth of chest so huge you could hide in it. Enough of taking all the fruits and berries for himself.
You stumble across a small clearing; find him feeding berries to a squirrel.
The first thing that you notice is the comical size of his hand compared to the squirrel. He's holding a berry in his hand while cross-legged on the earth, watching the animal shove the fruit in its cheeks, bulging with bounty. His head snaps towards you when your shoes crush a twig, and Beel says nothing.
You say nothing, too, and settle for leaning against a nearby tree and supervising the scene.
"You know...travellers don't stay in one place for long."
He looks a little flustered. "I, uh, wanted to stay for longer." Beel caresses the squirrel then, trailing his index finger along the lines on its body. "This forest is nice."
"It is." You add, and kneel down in front of him. The animal stares at you with its big eyes. If you stare hard enough, you can see your reflection in its gaze.
Beelzebub pulls some more berries out of his pockets and offers it to you. Palm outstretched, bright purple standing out against the callouses of his hand. You mutter words of gratitude and take one, biting into it without second thought, let the sweet juice dance on your tongue. He shoves the rest in his mouth, chews and swallows in the blink of an eye.
The squirrel decides to wrap its tiny hands around his index finger. Beelzebub lets it do what it wants.
"You should name it," you say, and watch his lips part slightly.
"A name?"
"Yes?"
He says nothing for a minute, and the insects buzz in the air before he speaks again.
"Jamun." He utters, and you parrot it back to him.
"Sounds fitting." You declare.
Then, something wet hits your head. You assume it is water from condensation on the leaves. But then another droplet, and another, and even Jamun runs away into the bushes.
Both you and Beel look up at the dark rain clouds.
"We both should be getting home." You get up, knees cracking in the process. Basket still empty, you pay it no mind. Beelzebub adjusts his clothes. "How long will it take you to reach your abode?"
He wipes away some droplets that have fallen on his eyelashes. "Uh, quite some time."
Above you, the sky grows angrier.
"You can wait at my place," you say with haste, and hold your garments with one hand to ensure they don't get stricken with mud. "Come on, why are you standing there?"
His hair sticks to his forehead, eyelashes clumping together as he blinks back the water. You take the chance to grab his wrist and lead him, and Beelzebub allows himself to be lead. Following like a dog, you break out into a sprint alongside him until you reach the stone steps outside your house's entrance.
You fiddle with the locks, and the door swings open. He doesn't have time to look around since you drag him in, and the man has to bend his head as to avoid it being slammed by the frame.
You remove your mud-stained footwear and throw Beel a cloth to dry himself off with, while you wring out the water from your hair with another. Through the process, you notice how he dwarfs the space he is in. Your house, large for you, feels smaller given his stature.
There's wood lying around.
"l'll get the fire started," you rush, removing your scarf and upper layers. "I don't have anything that will fit your size, so you can remove your upper layers so that they can dry alongside the hearth's heat." Beelzebub nods, and removes the garments without second thought.
The broad expanse of chest like a lion's, shoulders of a bull. Truly, a force of nature this man is. He can find employment in a king's army, or establish his own tribe, even. Why he chose to be peripatetic wanders around in your mind.
You turn around, just in time before he meets your gaze and realises you've been caught in the act. Rushing to another room, you close the sandalwood door and change, throwing your soaked garments into a pile on the floor. With dried garments and drying hair, you feel more at ease.
When you step out again, you start the fire and he puts his wet clothes spread out to dry.
"Thank you," he mutters, and you look up. The fire highlights the contours of his face, and the depth of his gaze. At you. "Any way I can be of help?"
"You can chop up the vegetables and meat. I'll make some stew." You gesture towards another straw-woven basket full of vegetables and mutton, acquired from the village nearby.
He fumbles around the kitchen for a while looking for knives and plates, while you focus on getting the house warm as the rain thunders outside. When you turn back after closing the windows, you see Beelzebub chopping up carrots and onion into fine pieces, fingers curled around the knife as if they've been trained for it. When the mutton is chopped up to, he presents it to you. You start by heating up the oil and letting the cumin seeds temper in a vessel, adding bay leaves and the veggies after. In between the sizzle of the ingredients and the smell of garlic and onion, conversation follows.
As the mutton releases its liquid, you ask about his family. Wouldn't they be worried if he doesn't come home on time? Beel shakes his head and smiles, placates you by saying they won't mind. When the broth finally starts to boil, you let him taste it by offering him a spoonful of it. His eyes go wide as soon as his tastebuds savour it, and he hums.
You smile and turn back to stirring the pot, then cover it.
"What about you?" He asks.
"My family lives far away." You say, washing your hands to rid them of the scent. "Visiting them would be at least two days journey by horse or cart."
"Why did you choose to stay here?"
"I wanted to."
"Okay."
The thunder crackles again, but not before lightning. You take a glance at his half-dried clothes and look for some shawls. He sits on the carpet awkwardly, legs pressed to his chest.
You find one after rummaging through your clothes; hand it to him. When he puts it around his shoulders, the tassels tickle his skin. The liquid threatens to leak from the pot and you remove it just in time with a spare cloth. You ladle two servings into bowls and give one to Beelzebub.
While nursing your own stew and chewing through the meat, you can't help but notice how the bowl looks so small in his hands. He could take two swings and the contents would be empty. And to your surprise, he does.
Two swings of the still steaming broth and mutton which would burn the roof of your mouth if you attempted such a stunt are now down his throat. You watch his Adam's apple bob as he chugs it. Beelzebub merely wipes his mouth after with the back of his hand before you can finish biting your piece.
"You can take more." You say, and watch his demeanour improve.
"Thank you." He mutters, and in between sips of your own stew you watch him finish the pot in the time it takes for his clothes to completely dry.
You just shrug and take a bite of the carrots.
He wears his clothes after, still wears the shawl over them. Cleans the pots and utensils with ash and water as thanks, sets it to dry. When you start to yawn, he's still awake. So you bid him goodnight and go to sleep in your room, rain still pouring.
Myna birds are chirping when you wake up.
Petrichor greets your nostrils after, and when you look outside the window the earth has turned into a vibrant green. Inside, Beelzebub is nowhere to be found.
Upon further inspection, you find the shawl neatly folded on a chair, along with a skinned rabbit.
Later, he comes again when you are attempting to fish by the river.
Fast-flowing water, you wait patiently for any to take the bait. Sitting on some rocks warmed by the sun, you wait. But no fish catches the bait, and when you are tethering on the impulse to give up Beelzebub comes again.
Near the river, you have to crank your neck just to look up at him. The midday surrounds his head like a halo.
"Need some help?"
"You bet."
Without warning, he folds up the fabric of his pants and throws away his shoes, revealing the expanse of his calves and feet, the delicate line of his achilles heel in the light glinting from sweat. The water ripples as he moves, giant of a man he is, and then bends down with both his hands in the downstream water. His forearms flex; he pulls up a Rohu in his hands, squirming about in search of air. He aims it at your desolate straw basket and deposits it there. You watch it gasping for air and give it a quick death with your knife. Painless. "Thank you!" You scream, and the sound is nearly swallowed by the roar of the river.
With alarming dexterity he deposits five more in your basket; you declare it fitting and for him to stop. Beelzebub is rewarded with three grilled fish for his help, and you both make conversation under a tree before he leaves again.
"I'm not going to come back for quite some time." He says, and you carefully remove a bone from between your lips. The news fills you with a heavy kind of feeling in your chest.
"When will you be back?"
He throws the bone into the grass, which will be taken over by the earth. "Don't know." He grunts before biting into the head. "Hope to see you soon though."
"Me too."
You're sewing together your torn clothes when he finds you.
"Did you get into an accident?"
"Left my window open," you say cooly. "An animal got in and tore all of it up. Some I can salvage, some I cannot."
Beel stands in a corner, unsure of what to do. He's never learnt how to sew properly, it seems, given he stares at the bone needle in your hand with a perplexing intensity. "It must be a chore."
You chuckle. "That's what I get for having a house in the middle of nowhere. Felines will tear up my clothes, such is their nature. Why should I blame them for acting according to how nature decreed them to be?"
"That's.....true." Beelzebub sits besides you, watches the needle and thread move in your hands as you repair the tear. The sunlight filters in, highlights the violet of his eyes. You criss-cross the stitch and make the knot; he fixates on the taunt thread which is cut in half by your scissors. "My third oldest brother knows how to stitch like you."
"Oh?" You smile.
"He made an outfit for himself in two days for an event from scratch. It looked good."
"You should learn to stitch too, you know? Will always come handy."
He looks up at you. "I don't know how to." He confesses. "Whenever I attempt sewing I end up poking my skin with the needle or tangling the thread with the fabric."
"I can teach you."
He perks up at that. Beams at you. You're reminded of the sun.
Winter, you find, is colder than usual.
You've had to layer yourself more, plus chop more wood in anticipation of the cold nights. Your chest still heaves with exertion as you plop on the floor and lean your head on the stone.
Looking back, now that Beelzebub hasn't come back in a long time, you finally assume he's on his travels as intended. It was also very foolish of you to invite a stranger in your home. You could have been murdered, and no one would be there to assist you. But thankfully Beelzebub is none of that.
Then something comes knocking.
It's Beelzebub, decked out in furs.
You open the door with eagerness and an alarming lack of survival instinct. He bends down to go past the doorway.
"Hi." You beam, staring up at him.
"Hello." He greets, shedding the uppermost layer. Looks around the space and makes note of the wood, overlooks the layers you have on.
"How are your travels going?" You inquire when the man has finally sat down on a rug, hands in his pocket and bare despite the cold. Cheeks and nose red.
"Explored a lot, but I got bored." He says, and then looks up at you. "How have you been?"
"Good. Winter's a bit harsh this time but I think I can manage."
"Oh. That's good."
Awkward silence follows.
"....We've run out of topics to speak about, haven't we?"
"....Yup."
You both awkwardly nod and stare at the fire, feeding it wood. Food is made later, and you wordlessly lay out extra bedding for Beelzebub this time. More quilts and blankets. He sits cross-legged next to you as you hand him his bowl.
Between bites of the venison and carrots, Beelzebub speaks. Tells you about his family and the seven brothers, and one sister. His eyes shine when he says her name. Lilith, he tells you. About the falling out with his family and what had followed. How rage turned his youngest against the oldest, and how she eventually passed away.
"I wonder how she must have fared sometimes." He muses, and then bites into the bone to seek out the marrow. You watch without blinking. "It must be liberating being human. One has the power to choose." Beelzebub murmurs, and your brain comes to a halt. "Demons are bound by desire. Celestial by perfection. Humans can choose any." He slurps the last of the soup and sighs.
"You are human too," you say, taking a sip. "What have you chosen?"
"Depends on what my stomach wants."
"Fair enough." Then quietly, you mumble. "I suppose that's a way of seeing things I haven't considered before." You hum, taking his empty bowl and yours. Getting up with a grunt, you prepare to complete the chores.
You put the dishes to be washed with hot water later. Stifling a yawn, you mumble. "It would make you very, very sleepy." Behind you, he grunts, and you hear the sounds of blankets being unfurled. You both get into your respective blankets, burrowing in the heat.
Even as the days grow colder, Beelzebub stays, this time.
With you in your home, bringing along more firewood than required, and hunting even more. You keep finding bones nearby, some of which you craft into tools and weapons, others which you leave alone. He brings you rabbit and sometimes deer, having the decency to at least make it look palatable, given his tendency of mauling his dinner, and you have the decency to remain quiet.
Graciously, you accept his offerings and make meals out of it. Sometimes you teach him out to sew from the needles crafted from bone, and you find out that he is terrible at it. The stitches were lopsided and his skin pricked with blood. Still, he had practiced, hunched over in front of the fire, shadow forming on the wall.
With Beelzebub, winter passes by like nothing.
You're never cold with him, not even once, because the man brings tons of firewood along with game. And when your hands are freezing, he places his own over yours, clasps them in his grip and lets the heat from them seep into yours. He is a furnace on his own, warming your space (and you). Shovels snow away from the entrance without asking, takes the shovel from you when you protest. You're being taken care of well too. Don't have to go hunting nor foraging as much. He brings you tender, fat cuts of meat from animals that would require a tribe to hunt. Says it is luck as he feeds you spoonful after spoonful. Like all hibernating animals, you gain a bit of weight, something that hasn't happened years given he does not let you shoulder all the work.
Sometimes, he comes home late amidst heavy snowfall, white clinging to his eyelashes. Shushes you when you protest at the cold that had seeped in due to him opening the door; bundles you up in furs and pets your head to soothe you back to sleep. When you ask him about it later, he only tells you that he was out hunting.
(In the snow, amidst the darkness?)
(Animals move around a lot at night, easier to hunt.)
You find footprints in the snow sometimes when you venture, deep imprints if into which you place your own feet look small, and the soles of deer which appear to flew from those. Sometimes paw prints of wolves, too.
The cold passes by with plenty, making way for soft warmth.
Then spring arrives, rebirth and colour along with it. Decay turns into new life. You show him the flowers that have bloomed, planted earlier, and the fruits that will eventually show after the flowers. Ripened for him to consume. No one else, no one else. He eats a lot, sure, but a man of his stature will need to. Yeah. That's all. He bickers with you while picking flowers, braids some into your hair and lets you make it into a crown for his head.
It's easy to excuse the intricacies of his behaviour as the foreign habits of a foreign traveller. It's easier to explain everything else.
Sometimes, you find yourself searching for him. Find yourself indulging more and more in gluttony despite him being right in front of you.
(Beel, where are you going?)
(Beel, is this looking alright?)
(Beel, you don't have to leave yet, yes, that's it)
But for someone like Beelzebub, loving him would be like breathing air. Automatic. Unconscious.
One night, everything unravels.
When Beelzebub closes the door on his way out, you can't soothe yourself back to sleep. There's no buzz of insects in the air, no hooting of owls. Just an alarming silence which settles cold in your bones. And the forest being silent is never a good sign.
The last time it went silent, you came across the mangled corpse of one of the wolves. Paws and teeth missing, poachers. They sell as charms for a huge price in the market.
You need to call Beelzebub home before it is too late.
Hastily wearing your boots, you step out into the night with a lantern fuelled by clarified butter, closing the door behind you. The grass is wet, and every step you make sends sounds to the trees. Human in the vicinity, fresh prey.
"Beelzebub!" You shout his name with urgency, and the words bounce back right at you. There's no answer.
Your feet move faster with urgency, lantern flickering. "Beelzebub! Can you hear me?"
The forest grows denser, deeper, bark starting to look more like the harrowed expression of men rather than what it actually is. You force yourself to move forward and ignore the warning signs nature begs you to see.
You come across the lower half first.
Shoes, leather ones and padded too. Haphazardly thrown. You stretch out the hand holding the lantern and see the earth dragged into the bushes. Something large, something heavy.
Your heart leaps into your throat.
No, it can't be—
"Beelzebub! Answer me!"
This time, you are rewarded with a growl. Guttural than anything you've ever heard before, like one of the beasts that reside in the foreign lands. You should turn back. Really turn back, given how goosebumps rise on your skin and your own blood thumps in your ears. But you have faced predators before and lived.
So you move.
Deeper, till the trees give way to a small clearing.
His hair comes into view first, then the smell of metal in the air.
"Beel, are you hurt? What are you doing?" He says nothing, just recedes further into himself as if to hide something from you, and oh.
Man.
Without shoes, blood on the face and a throat which has collapsed onto itself. Your lantern falls on the ground and then Beelzebub turns around to look at you.
You really wish you hadn't.
Because his face is stricken with blood, man's blood, and his teeth have blood on them and oh god was he eating the man?!
You shriek, and the soft earth gives way as you flee.
"____!" There's a shout of your name, but you don't look back.
Instinct overrides conscience, and so you run further and further until you reach your abode, trembling hands opening the door just to lock it from the inside. You close the windows too, settling on the floor just to catch your breath. The adrenaline has left you shaking all over. Beelzebub has killed a man. You're residing with him in your home. His face was streaked red. The man's face looked caved in.
There's a knock at the door. You jolt.
"___? It's me, Beelzebub."
You stay silent for a moment, the lump in your throat preventing you from speaking. "Go away!" You squeak, crawling away from the door; your legs refuse to stand up. The door rattles, and you feel that the frame might collapse on itself for a moment. More beast than man, you suddenly feel very afraid.
You swallow to find your voice. "G-Go away!"
You can imagine the frown on his face now; fumbling as you realise you'd shown him where you keep your spare key. Unbearably foolish of you, you admonish. Giving one entry into your home, too trusting.
He doesn't use the key.
"Please, we can talk and figure it out." Voice calm, rational, despite whatever that had happened was not. You pick up a spare knife which had been used to cut fruits earlier and grab the wooden handle like a lifeline.
"No we don't." You blurt, shoving a chair in front of the door. The screech is unpleasant. "I saw you with blood on your face, that man dead. What conclusion do I make?"
"I can explain everything," he says with conviction, and you know Beelzebub never lies. "Give me one chance. If you are unsatisfied, I will leave." You still clutch the knife to your chest, heart thudding and your legs trembling.
"No!"
You imagine his frown at the response. "Please, just let me speak. If you do not accept it still, I will leave."
You remain silent.
"Please."
"No—you're a demon, you're, you're not—a—" You can't bring yourself to call him that. Can't bring yourself to call Beelzebub a monster when he has been more humane to you than humans.
The door splinters, and before you know it it is opened the wrong way, off the hinges. The chair is pushed to the side with one hand. You can only step further and further away into a corner, knife clutched to your chest like a lifeline. The forest is silent, the forest is dead. You will be dead, too, maybe. Beelzebub steps in and squares his shoulders, abandoned lantern in one hand and sees the woman standing in a corner with a knife still clutched to her chest. Looks at him with wide eyes and legs which still tremble like a newborn fawn's. He closes the door, the sound of it swinging like a declaration, and sits on the outstretched chair.
"I—You—!" The scent of his which was calming before is now foreboding, you have never been intimidated before by his size but are now. "Why—you—leave!" You sputter, eyes wide as the wood presses against your back. You feel small. "Just, please, leave—"
"—That man had no good intentions." He interrupts, hands in his pockets. "He would have butchered and plundered your home. I did what was right." Beelzebub looks sullen at the same time despite the self-assurance, looking like a kicked puppy.
You swallow. "What you did, Beelzebub, was kill a man."
"The forest does not follow human rules of propriety. Nor do I."
"But this is my home," you get up on shaky knees. "And you shall follow my rules."
Something in him flares at that. "I shall leave then, ______." He mumbles, running a hand through his hair. "You said you can't blame beings for acting the way nature decided it to be. I'm a demon. You can't expect me to be benign towards everyone."
Your face contorts in anger. "You never told me about your origins. I had to find out myself. Had I known you were a demon, I would, I would—"
Words fail you.
He smiles. You smile grimly too, despite everything. "Fair enough." He says.
Exhaustion stays heavy in your body as you run a hand across your face.
The knife in your hand is tossed on the floor. You walk towards Beelzebub, who still has blood staining the cuffs on him. "Had you told me in the beginning, I would have still accepted you." Looking him in the eye, you place a hand on his chest. His heart thumps beneath the skin, too fast for a human's. You don't what you're doing anymore, don't know what you're feeling anymore. "You have killed a man, Beelzebub."
He stares baffled.
"I should really drive you out," you mumble, wiping a smear of dried blood from his neck. His throat bobs as you do that. "But you still are Beel, despite everything."
You saunter away from him then, and still don't feel like turning your back to him. Eyes follow the back of your head as you walk towards the kitchen. "You must be really hungry."
At that, he gulps. "Offer me satiation, then." He rasps, and watches you nod without thinking.
You've watched him consume man. "Okay." You're grasping a basket of fruits when his hand comes into view. Takes the basket and deposits it back to its place. Your breath dies halfway in your throat. All you can smell is Beel, beel, beel, and not the soot and ash and spices.
Without ceremony, he turns you around. You're face to face with the demon; eyes shimmering with something foreign. He takes a bunch of grapes from behind you from the basket and looks you in the eye as he pops one into his mouth. "But I don't want food." His fingers grab a grape, and he places it between your lips, urging you to open.
They part with reluctance, the weight of it suddenly heavy as he eats in front of you, trails the same finger across your lips and traces it down to your chest until it rests on your lower stomach, heat from his hand searing into your skin even through your layers. Right on your womb.
"What I want," he whispers, chewing, looking you in the eye as he silently urges you to bite. "Is this."
You bite into the berry, let the juice of it smear across your tongue. Beelzebub gazes at you satisfied, rubs a thumb across your cheekbone.
"May I?" He whispers, and then he's bending down, pressing kisses to the column of your throat. Your heart pounds in your ears, his lips so warm against your flesh. "Please?" He whimpers, nuzzling into the scent of your skin. Pleads as if he's offering worship, tone so sweet and so low. When you remain silent, his kisses grow harder, tongue darting out to lap up the sweat on your skin, trailing it and leaving a trail of wetness which follows. Your body shivers at the contact despite the heat.
You gasp at the sensation. "Okay," you say. "You may."
His hands find your hips then; grasping, groping, thumb massaging circles into the area where the bone is felt. "My hunger leaves me single-minded, forgive me, forgive me." A chant, and his hands feel you all over, huge; on your face, vision covered by his fingers so that you can only see glimpses of the way his chest heaves between the gaps.
Beelzebub picks you up with one hand, deposits you on your bed. The blanket is thrown to the side, and before you know it you are supine on the material. You are trembling, but not from the cold.
"Always smell so sweet," he pants, trailing his mouth down your navel and pulls apart the garments on your lower half like paper. You yelp as it happens, the fabric tearing and then scattered around you. "Always wanted a taste, mhm, so fucking decadent."
Cold air meets your pussy, and Beelzebub trails a finger down the curls there, lies in between your thighs on his forearms, eye-level with your cunt. Index finger on the hood of your clit, revels in the jolt you produce.
"And so wet too." Blows air on it and makes you huff. Like a man starved, his stomach growls and it sounds more like that of a ravaging beast than anything else. Calls for sustenance, anything, maybe the blood or flesh of man. When he licks a strip from your fluttering hole to your clit, something in him snaps. He smacks his lips, which shine in the lamplight.
He doesn't give you any warning before his hands are underneath your thighs, grabbing and pulling you closer to his face. You can barely squeak out a protest before he's diving into it, tongue so wet and so hot against your clit, sucking, slurping. You can only croon and grab handfuls of the furs to hold on to.
"Mhm, Beelzebub, slow down—slow down!"
But he is not man but a demon who is indulged in his own feast. A worshipper lost in his devotion, pulling your thighs closer like they are the altar just to please his god. But what is god here, expect his gluttony? He slurps and grunts when you pull at his hair; and he takes it as a signal to suck even harder on your clit, eliciting a moan out of you.
"No use being quiet," he mutters in between your cunt. "No one will disturb us." To cement his words, he takes two of his fingers and inserts them into your clenching hole, and you can only gasp and watch as arousal drips down his forearms and soaks the fabric beneath. Beelzebub inserts his tongue in your cunt along with his fingers, and your thighs lock around his head like a live wire in an attempt to maybe stop or steady yourself. The door still swings, and the lamplight still flickers. The forest remains dead awaiting the passing by of the predator which lives in your home. You had offered it residence too.
He curls his fingers then, feels the wet heat of your pussy taking him in further. "She's begging for more," he says, looking up at you. His chin is wet. "Shouldn't we give her what she wants?"
Rocks his fingers upwards then, holds your thighs when they tremble. A thumb circling your clit too, for good measure "You-ah, you were the one who wanted—"
"You want it too, don't you?"
You can't bring yourself to answer that, but Beel finds his response when he finally focuses on removing his fingers and eating you out like a man starved. Slurping, sucking. Uncaring of whether you flail about or protest, he only has to bend your knees and push them upwards to your chest. His nose swipes against your clit, stubble on his chin lightly scratching the delicate skin. "Fucking hell," you mumble, eyes rolling when he presses his tongue in and you clench. "I-ugh-"
He will devour and devour and devour—
The sheets are wet beneath you now. Something in you comes alive when he sucks on your clit, alternating between that and your clenching cunt. Too rough, too fast, too hard. Blood rushes in your ears and your cunt, every nerve alight with sensation as the demon draws figure eights on your cunt. His mouth is cruel in its taking, and oh god—
Take and take and take—
Teeth graze your pussy in warning when you attempt to squirm; and your body locks up in fear. He hums in satisfaction and the sound seems to vibrate as he sucks again. You come apart with a strangled cry, legs trembling as you clench around his tongue. He seems utterly unbothered; sucks meanly again and twists his fingers at the same time. Your legs flail about, mouth opening and gasping for a reprieve he will not give.
His tongue, hot and wet, finally licks up again from your leaking hole to clit, making you jolt. You are left panting as he removes his shirt, the contours of his body in the lamplight prominent that ever.
You scramble up as he unbuckles his pants.
"One isn't enough." He blurts, single-minded focus as the leather falls to the floor. "Won't ever be enough."
He leans towards you, knees on the floor as he looks at you, eyes-half lidded and burning with intensity. His breath is hot on your face, and when your lips meet your mind blanks. Everything turns warm and soft, and when he slots his lips against yours you revel in the feeling. Teeth clank against each other and your breath mingles with his.
You can feel his hunger now; burning hot and bright and angry, years and years of control in not devouring whole. You lick into his mouth, then, and Beel moans. Slots his fingers in your hair and nudges you on the ruined sheets, laps up the drool that is spilling past both your lips. Beelzebub raises his head then to look at you, but you grab him by the hair and pull him towards you, impatient, hungry. Sliding your tongue into his mouth, he's left dumbfounded at the greed you display. But embraces it all the same, lets his tongue collide with yours and explores your mouth too.
He's removing your upper garments then, in between kissing you. As soon as newfound skin is revealed, his mouth leaves no space blank. Sucks bruises into the skin and nearly bites. Lets the sting in his hair from your pulling make him feel alive again. Your knee accidentally nudge between his thighs, you feel the hardness there. Beel groans at the contact, hips rutting for more of the sensation as your breasts spill open from the garment. Takes one into his hand; feels the softness of it as he sinks his mouth onto another. His tongue is hot, wet and slippery as he wraps his lips around a nipple and sucks.
You pant softly, hand cradling his face as he looks up at you. Beelzebub kisses your hand then, rests his face in your palm as the other hand moves downwards to flick your clit. "Beel!" You gasp, still sensitive. He grins into your skin.
"Sorry," he says, still smiling.
He removes his lower garments then, lets his manhood free from the confines of cloth. You wrap your fingers around it without thinking and he gasps above you. Soft yet hard at the same time, pulsing with warmth, and oh, dripping too.
You swipe your thumb across the head, smearing the liquid, and the demon hisses. "You like that?" You ask, looking up at his scrunched eyebrows and the pink of his ears. It's so unfair when you're looking at him like that so sweetly as you pump his cock.
"Yess."
He lets you experiment some more, until the ache in his core starts bothering him again, an endless pit begging to be filled. He parts your thighs, sees the glistening arousal on your cunt and rubs the length of him across; both of you moan in unison.
You have to part your legs wider just to accommodate his frame, and he's so hot and heavy against you.
"Beel, please."
And he knows to never make you ask twice. He prods the tip at your entrance, revels in the sensation as your walls flutter around him. "Fuck." He groans, one hand near your face as he steadies himself. "So damn tight and wet."
Liquid arousal pools in your stomach, the sensation of being stretched out not entirely unpleasant. You can take more and take more, always, of Beelzebub. Yeah. He'd keep you full and fed forever. He adjusts the pillow underneath your head as his hips roll further into you, pelvis pressing against your own. The coarse hairs there rub deliciously against your clit.
Finally all the way in, you both stay still jus to revel in the sensation. There's a sheen of sweat on his face, and when you beckon him towards you he obliges.
You pull him in at the last second; nearly drawing blood from his lip in eagerness. The action is sloppy, and when his mouth moves over your you feel as if he might just devour you whole. Your pleas to move are swallowed up by him, and you cry out into him when he finally moves.
Pulls back, just to thrust again.
The air is knocked out of your lungs at that, walls fluttering in an attempt to keep him in. You put your hand over your face and try to contain the sounds that he elicits from you. But it is Beel, and the only thing he desires is that you not hide from him. Let him know whether he's doing it right, doing everything right.
The veins on his arms bulge, muscles locking in an attempt to not place his full weight on you. He's not even picked up the pace yet Beelzebub feels his thighs tremble. You wrap your legs around his back, pulling him in, trapping him in, and he stumbles before regaining his balance. "Okay," he laughs softly, grabs your hips to place them a bit higher. "I promise I won't let go."
The sting stretch has turned into something impossibly decadent; pulsing, throbbing, in time with his thrusts. Both your moans are a lewd symphony, owls now hooting outside. The forest is alive again, life has started again.
He watches your tits bounce in time with his thrusts, grabs one and pinches it just to see you squirm. Bends down to suckle on the other; ruts just a bit harder into you. The fabric beneath you both is crumpled now, the blanket forgotten. "Ah," you moan softly, running a hand through his hair. "Glutton."
"When am I not?" He says against your skin, blows air on the nipple.
Puts his weight on his forearms to truly look at you. The blooming bruises on your neck, the spit-slick lips and the haze in your eyes which mirrors his own. Because nothing else matters right now, nothing else except you and him.
You're pulling him in again; a huff escapes his lips and before he knows it he's grabbing your thighs just to press them to your chest, breasts crushed together as he nearly folds you in half. But never too rough, ensures that the pillow stays underneath your head. The new angle allows him to go deeper, makes his hips rutting into you a tad easier.
And you're panting now, and if Beelzebub flicks your clit in time with his thrusts he can hear the whines you've not been letting him hear. His balls slap against your ass, the sound lewd in the room. He's kissing you again, mouth hungry for your taste. "Don't—hah—please don't tell me to leave. I can't."
He can't he won't he can't he won't—
You grunt when he removes his forearms and lets his full weight fall on you. Grabs your face with both of his hands and ensures you don't hide away. You feel crushed. You feel overwhelmed. You don't want to let go. And the warmth they possess is overwhelming. His cheeks are red from exertion, eyes half-lidded and lips as shiny as your own. Your's and his saliva. The new angle and the weight on you makes everything intense. Makes you forget the sound of the forest and only focus on Beelzebub.
"Won't tell you to leave ever. Don't let go." You groan, watch as his lips turn up at that, fangs peeking out in the lamplight. He kisses you harder, steals the breath from your lungs and laps up the drool that strays down your cheek. Because all this time, with Beel by your side, everything is better.
Your legs tremble in warning, and when he ruts his hips deeper that is all it takes.
You cum with a strangled cry, the sound swallowed up by him as your nails dig into the skin of his back. Scratching, grabbing, grounding. Your cunt flutters, white-hot pleasure overtaking you as Beelzebub doesn't stop. Another wave of wetness soaks his length and the sheets pillow, and it's downright filthy.
"Hear that?" he croons, trailing a finger down your cunt where you two are joined. Puts the same finger in his mouth, watches you stare at him wide-eyed. "Tastes so good too."
And always the one to share with his loved ones, he parts your lips with that same finger, lets it hit the back of your throat. Smiles when you gag around the intrusion, only moves his hips harder. You want to cry out, too much, too much, and yet you do not want it to end.
That's the way it is with Beelzebub.
Your pussy squelches with every thrust, and tomorrow you'll have bruises on your hips. And tomorrow he will frown looking over them and rub salve into the mottled skin with his thumb. But tonight he will partake in your defilement, carry it out with his own two hands. Tonight he will indulge his sin in the one thing he does not want to let go.
You can feel him groaning in your mouth, which turn into moans. His cock feels simply divine inside you, and you can tell he is close given the way his hips have started going deeper.
He grits his teeth as he moves to pull out in time; you wrap your arms around his head to stop him. "No," you say. "Want it inside."
If you ask he would never deny you of anything.
Beelzebub grunts, utterly ruined as he spills inside your velvet heat. You can feel him filling you up as his thrusts slow down, hips stuttering in their pace as his body locks up.
He collapses, after, full weight on you and cock still buried in your cunt. You both attempt to catch your breath as he presses sloppy kisses on your shoulder. The room has gone silent, the world reduced to a pleasant blur. Maybe time has stopped for you both.
"I'm still not satisfied," he says into your skin. "Will you give me more?"