Beelzebub

“I can’t take this anymore,” Beelzebub muttered, his voice rough with frustration. He groaned, his head falling dramatically against the table as drool threatened to drip from the corner of his mouth. “You’re starving your husband!”

The scent of the food you were preparing wafted over to him, teasing him, torturing him. It wasn’t fair. Not when he could practically taste it already. He buried his face in his arms for a moment, trying to keep himself from crashing out—but it was no use.

He peeked up at you, watching the way your hands moved, slicing vegetables, stirring sauces, all so meticulous and careful. He knew you were doing this for him. That only made the wait worse. You were his, weren’t you? His spouse, the one who promised to care for him, to never let him suffer. And this? This was suffering.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he said, half-joking, half-serious. “Torturing me like this.” He leaned back in his chair, his hand resting dramatically on his chest as if he were about to faint. “Do you want me to waste away? Is that it? Because that’s what’s going to happen if you don’t hurry up.”