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livelovehatedie · 2 months ago

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@popinavarro

“Daddy!”

“Wake up!”

Both twins jump on the bed, or rather, just on Amaimon while shaking him and calling for him to wake up over and over. The bed shakes uncomfortably, with one twin even stepping painfully on your side as they shake him awake. Amaimon sits up in bed, unintentionally knocking both off, but that doesn’t deter them; the moment he’s sitting up, they attack him again.

You reach over, carefully holding the blanket down at his waist. The twins never come in and randomly jump on the bed, you sit up to, and you hold the blanket to your chest. “Daddy is awake. Why don’t you let him get dressed?” You pull your daughter away from him, though your son remains attached.

“Get dressed.” Your son bluntly orders.

Amaimon nods. “Fine, get out. I’m naked.” He orders, and the twins follow his orders without argument.

“Why are they bothering us so early?” Amaimon glances at the clock on the nightstand. It’s just past six in the morning. “They normally sleep late on weekends.”

You can’t help but laugh as a slight pout crosses his face. “They’re excited because it’s Father’s Day. They made a gift for you at school, and they really want to give it to you.” You sit up as well, wrapping your arms around the king and pulling him closer. “They didn’t understand how important this day was until now since it’s their first time in school,” you explain, kissing his warm cheek.

“It’s not important.”

You pinch the tip of his ear. “It’s important for two six-year-olds who love their father and want to celebrate the special day with him.”

You always did something special for Father's Day and Mother's Day. However, it seems the school has made the twins feel that these two days are more important than how you and Amaimon treated them in the past.

"They made you something at school. You have to act surprised," you say, which is a request you’ve said for every birthday and holiday since the twins were first able to use construction paper and glue. It’s never gotten easier for him.

Amaimon rises and begins to pick out clothes for the day. He appears to be genuinely tired. "Amaimon, did you sleep?”

“I was asleep for about twenty minutes. I didn’t realize they would come in at six. They never wake up this early," he admits.

“Idiot, you should go to sleep when I do.”

“I like watching you sleep.”

You roll your eyes and get off the bed, taking the underwear he offers. "I sleep for more than just two hours. You can sleep for two hours, then spend the rest of the time watching like a weirdo."

“It’s not weird to watch my mate sleep," he replies flatly. “I watch the twins while they sleep too. Why is it weird I like to watch my family?"

He sounds genuinely confused, and while it’s strange to say aloud, the fact that Amaimon just likes to stare at you and the twins is really sweet. He also randomly stares at you throughout the day, too, as if he can’t believe this is his life. You know he never imagined he’d fall in love and have a family.

“God, I love you.” You laugh. “Come on, get dressed.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Okay, it’s not weird. I’m glad you’re happy with your family and like to stare at us sometimes. Now, get dressed.”

Amaimon quickly slips into a dark red T-shirt and pinstriped pants. He intertwines his fingers and stretches, cracking his knuckles as he does. "I’m ready for Father’s Day.”

You find the twins in the kitchen, sitting at the table with bright golden eyes fixed on their father. “We made breakfast!” your daughter exclaims, proudly pointing at the cereal she prepared for Amaimon. “Big Brother had to climb the cabinets to get the cereal, but I got the milk.” She beams with pride while her older brother frowns at her and then gives her a gentle shove—not to hurt her, but as a warning. He doesn’t want to get in trouble for climbing the cabinets.

“Sit!” the twins say together, patting the table. Amaimon walks over and thanks them with his familiar tone.

The twins watch Amaimon closely, eager to see his reaction to the ‘breakfast’ in front of him: two mismatched bowls, one filled with the twins’ favorite cereal, brightly colored with marshmallows, and the other containing two half-peeled tangerines and rainbow gummy worms.

He sits, blank-faced, while the twins lean in. Your daughter is excited, and your son mirrors his father’s expression almost perfectly. “I made the bowl pretty,” she says, clearly proud of her masterpiece.

Amaimon snaps a photo of the bowl with his phone, a task you've reminded him about at least twelve times since preschool art projects began. “Very pretty,” he comments while texting the photo to Mephisto, who sometimes struggles to believe that Amaimon has truly fallen in love and loves his twins.

The twins watch him lift a spoon, heavy with marshmallows, and slowly bring it to his mouth. He eats it without ceremony, but they scuttle forward in delight, finding their reward not in his taste buds but in the act of eating itself. Your daughter giddily details the process of how they made his breakfast.

“First, I wanted to pick out all the blue ones because those are the best, but I left some for you because I know you like them too.” Amaimon looks at his daughter and then at his son, who nods in agreement with his sister. “She tried to take all the marshmallows too, but I told her she can’t.”

“It’s good.” He answers honestly, however, it’s not that surprising. It’d be hard to mess up cereal. “What happened to the tangerines?” He questions bluntly.

Both suddenly turn away, looking slightly embarrassed. “They wouldn’t peel right," your son admits. “We both tried and couldn’t do it.”

Amaimon picks one up and stares at it. It’s clear the twins struggled to do it because of their claws, given how the fruit is punctured.

He peels a fruit for the twins and splits it in half. Then, he peels a second fruit and gives half to you, which prompts cheers from the twins. “Daddy’s strong,” his daughter exclaims, poking at the neatly peeled fruit. “and he takes care of Mama!”

You eat the segments as you carefully watch the twins who are watching their father. Amaimon quickly finishes the bowl of cereal, even drinking the milk before placing the bowl back on the table. “I’m finished,” he states.

“You didn’t eat the gummy words.” They argue back.

Amaimon picks one up and bites it in segments, chewing only one color at a time. The twins mimic his actions, adopting another unusual trait from their father.

“So, what are we doing today?” you ask, scanning their eager faces. Their school had sent a list of Father’s Day activities, most requiring “parental guidance,” which, in your case, means “supervision so nobody gets hurt or brings home a new demon.”

“Wait! We have to give you a gift. Close your eyes!” your daughter insists as her brother sits across from Amaimon, ensuring he listens and keeps his eyes shut. Amaimon complies easily, keeping his eyes closed until she places a gift bag in front of him. The bag is medium-sized and has "Happy Father’s Day" printed on both sides.

“Open it!” They both demand.

He pulls out the tissue paper before reaching the gift. “A shirt?” He questions as he pulls out an interesting white button-up that has been decorated.

Your son nods. “They said we could each do our own, but I wanted you to wear my shirt today, and she said you should wear hers.” He points out the fact that the shirt has two distinct sides. “We agreed this would be better. I colored this side.”

The left side looks more like their father’s style, color-wise. There are different shapes all over it, some of them the swirling symbols on Amaimon’s demonic arms and horns, with a few random drawings of the family together. It’s clearly the side your son did.

The right side is chaotic; she clearly didn’t select a specific color scheme. There is a large pink and blue drawing of Behemoth at the bottom front and a cute red heart on the left pocket of the shirt's chest. A larger drawing of your family between the heart and Behemoth drawing, it takes up almost the whole left side, and the spike on Amaimon’s head is hilariously exaggerated.

The collar of the shirt is yellow on the left side and black on the right. Flipping the shirt over reveals even more drawings: a nature scene on the left side and a fighting scene on the right. You’re fairly certain that’s a drawing of Amaimon killing Rin Okumura, but you refuse to comment on it. The twins despise Rin, all because their father does, never mind the fact that Rin is a friend of yours.

He holds it up with a measuring air. "You want me to wear it today," he says. It is not a question. The twins nod furiously, bouncing on their chairs.

“We worked hard on it,” says your son, and your daughter nods in agreement.

“This is my favorite shirt now,” Amaimon declares. You cannot tell if he means it, but the twins howl and leap at him, nearly knocking his cereal bowl over. He manages to catch both children, and in this moment—shirt and all—you love him more than you possibly did before.

“Let me try it on.” He sets the twins down before tugging the t-shirt over his head. He smirks slightly when he catches your eye, and you roll your eyes. “Put on your shirt, Daddy.” He follows your instructions, quickly putting on the shirt and buttoning it.

"You look silly," your son laughs.

He tugs at the hem. The fit is perfect and awful. The heart sits directly above Amaimon's own, the family portrait on the left side looming like a joyful crest.

“It’s perfect,” you say, and he gives you one of his small, sideways smiles.

“Yes, I like it.”

Your daughter wraps his arms around his waist. “Will you wear it outside? We need to go somewhere special.”

Amaimon just awkwardly pats her head, “Where do you want to go?”

“It’s Father’s Day! So, you have to choose.” Her eyes flicker toward the bar, subtly drawn to something. Amaimon follows her gaze and spots a vibrant flyer for a new trampoline park, bright colors covering it with tacky fonts.

“A trampoline park?” he mumbles to himself, glancing at the flyer. Her eyes brighten with excitement. “Daddy! Do you want to go to a trampoline park?”

Her older brother scoffs. “You want to go, stop trying to take over Father’s Day. It’s his day to decide, not yours.”

“I didn’t say he had to go! You want to go too!” She argues.

“Father’s Day.”

Amaimon gazes at the flyer before stepping forward and taking one of the twins' hands in each of his. He runs his thumb over their claws. Although theirs aren't as long or sharp as his, they are still dangerous, especially in a trampoline park. He releases their hands, and with a puff of smoke, two pairs of gloves materialize in his palms. “You need to wear these when we go.” They’re the type of gloves Mephisto uses; they can help hide the claws and prevent anyone from getting hurt.

“Will you wear gloves?” Both ask at the same time.

“No.”

“If you don’t need them, neither do I.” Your son argues, and his sister nods in agreement.

“If you don’t wear them, I’m taking your mother to the trampoline park and leaving you here.”

Amaimon’s statement is rewarded with a united gasp, betrayal etched on two small faces. Your son grimaces, knowing he’s been outplayed, then slowly slides his hands into the gloves. His sister follows suit, putting on a dramatic display by wiggling her fingers through each hole as if she were donning battle gear.

You laugh slightly. “You both need to get dressed before we head out; you’re still in your pajamas.”

It only takes a few minutes before the twins have already dressed themselves. Amaimon looks at the ensemble and simply nods in approval before pulling out a magic key. “Let’s go.” The door of your house opens into the trampoline park.

The trampoline park is a vibrant jungle of nets and neon platforms, piles of soft cubes, and the frantic shrieks of children and teens tumbling above blue mats. Parents appear bleary-eyed from caffeine, herding their sugar-high kids.

Amaimon surveys the chaos around him with an expression of indifference. Nothing seems to disturb him as he firmly holds onto each twin’s hand, keeping them close in his mismatched shirt. This outfit draws curious glances from several nearby children and parents, some looking impressed. You recognize one mother with a child in grade one who turns and gives her husband a nasty look. Amaimon remains oblivious, fully focused on the twins and you.

A teenage employee approaches you with a friendly smile, holding out a release form and the fuzzy socks everyone is required to wear. You grab Amaimon by the back of his shirt and tug him down to sit on a bench. The twins quickly drop onto the bench across from you, kicking off their shoes and putting on the socks while Amaimon scans the waiver and signs it.

As the employee takes the clipboard back with the forms, the twins dart off to play. You barely get your own shoes off before they’ve disappeared, only to spot them moments later, climbing up a rock tower that leads to an inflatable slide.

Amaimon wraps his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder.

“It’s Father’s Day, and they’ve already forgotten they’re meant to be here to celebrate with you.” You laugh. “I wonder which one will notice first.”

“It could go either way for different reasons.”

You nod in agreement; your son is the more logical one and would typically notice something like this before his sister. However, since it involves Amaimon, there’s no telling who will notice first because your daughter is a daddy’s girl. "Want to make a bet on who notices first?” you tease.

“What do I get if I win?”

“Whatever you want.”

He lets his hands drop to your hips. “Now? We could leave-”

“Pervert.” You elbow him, and he bends, teeth grazing the round of your shoulder in retaliation. You squirm free, catching the glint in his gold eyes.

You scan the UV-lit maze. They’re having some sort of race and not playing fair; occasionally, one catches up and knocks the other down. Although they aren’t fighting over it, they just pick themselves back up to continue the race.

Amaimon steps away to buy some junk food at the bar. He returns with a plate of takoyaki and two fruity drinks that you can already tell are overloaded with sugar. “Sit down, there is a table.” He gestures toward a free table in an area where a few parents are seated.

You turn your attention back to the twins once you both settle. “They’re perfect,” you murmur.

“Yes. Our children will always be above others,” Amaimon states.

You laugh and take a sip of the overly sweet fruit slush, watching your daughter pummel through a sea of foam blocks. She yells something at her brother before pausing, a look of realization crossing her face. “Daddy!!!”

“I won.” Amaimon stares blankly at you.

“We never said which kid we were betting on!” you argue, but Amaimon shoves a takoyaki ball into your mouth. “I will collect my prize anyway.” He wipes a streak of sauce from your mouth with his thumb, unhurriedly licking it clean afterward. “Though, I would’ve already been getting it tonight.” He seems thoughtful. “Maybe I should ask for a different prize.”

“Shut up and go to your children, they’re calling you.”

He tilts his head, bemused, then stands up and navigates through the towering obstacle course of primary colors and echoing shrieks. Your daughter dashes toward him, launches herself, and grabs his arm. She’s panting, her eyes wide and excited. “Daddy, come on!” her voice rings out, clear even above the riot of other families.

He allows her to lead him, and the two vanish into a winding stretch of trampoline, where she insists they jump together.

You watch in amusement as your son suddenly appears and jumps onto Amaimon’s back, toppling the demon king.

As he falls forward, Amaimon rolls onto his back—his expression completely blank, yet his arms quickly wrap around your son, who shrieks with delight while caught in a rib-crushing embrace. 

Over the next hour, you watch the ritual of children’s games. During each game, the twins look to their father, always seeking Amaimon’s silent nod of encouragement. 

Somehow, Amaimon manages to convince the twins to let him go back and rest with you. “It’s going to be lunch time soon, what do you want?” he questions you.

“It’s Father’s Day, you choose.”

-------------------------------

“They're fragile,” Amaimon remarks casually, cradling each twin on his hips as they sleep. “They tire out too quickly.”

You roll your eyes at his observation while using the key to unlock the door to your apartment. “That’s how they are, Amaimon. They’re only six.”

He makes a vague noise and enters, pausing just long enough to take off his shoes before carrying the twins to their bedroom. You follow behind, watching as he places each of them on their bed, removes their shoes, and carefully tucks them in.

“You’re such a good father and husband.” You praise him, wrapping your arms around him as he closes the twins’ door behind him.

“I know.”

“I didn’t get you a gift because I knew that if I asked what you wanted, you’d realize it was Father’s Day. The twins wanted to surprise you, and I didn’t want to spoil that.” You poke at the heart on the pocket of his shirt. “What do you want?”

“Anything?”

“Within reason.”

“I want another.”

“Another what?”

“Baby. Child. Offspring.”

You stare at him, searching for the hint of a joke. Amaimon doesn’t blink. He’s just studying your expression the same way you’re studying his. Except, he’s better at hiding his.

Amaimon studies your face for a moment, his gaze neither menacing nor pleading, just completely unreadable. You feel the urge to say something sarcastic, something that might sting just a little to see how serious he really is, but the words stick in your throat.

He waits.

The silence thickens, but you don’t break it. Instead, Amaimon leans in, his nose almost brushing against yours, and whispers, “You said anything.” He smells like sugar and citrus."Also, I won the bet," he reminds you.

You let the quiet spool between your lips and his. “You want another one?” you manage, but it catches on a laugh. The laugh is brittle, barely there. “You want… three?”

He shrugs. “I want more than three.”

“How many were you thinking?” You question.

He surveys your three-bedroom apartment. “We should buy a bigger house," he says casually, but there's a fire in his gold eyes that suggests he’s put a lot of thought into it. Ultimately, it all depends on you, no matter what.

“How long have you been thinking about this?” you ask.

Amaimon’s mouth quirks. “Since you snapped at Rin Okumura on my first day of school. He was your friend, yet you chose me over him. I wanted it all then. Mate, house, children, a lot of children.”

You laugh, "I was worried about whether you even liked me as a friend, while you were already planning our future together." You take a step back, tugging him along by a handful of his shirt, which feels warm in your grip. “We can discuss the details later. I think you deserve a nap, my king.”

He doesn’t resist your pull and even allows you to lead him to your bedroom. But then, he takes charge, pulling you onto the bed and resting his head against your chest. “Is one of the details you agreeing?”

He questions calmly. “Yes. Now go to sleep, you’re clearly exhausted.”

“Okay.”

He’s out in ten seconds, just like you knew he’d be—hand still curled around your wrist, as if anchoring you to this exact spot.

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livelovehatedie · 2 months ago

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@popinavarro

“How does it feel?” you whisper softly, your fingers gently spreading the salve over the tender skin just beneath his rib cage. It’s an open wound, but you were able to make it in time to treat it before it became worse. Lucifer catches your hand, his touch warm as he pulls the mask from his face with his other hand. Slowly, he begins to sit up, and you can feel the tension in the room as those nearby urge him to relax, to lie back down, not to stress himself. Concerned for his well-being.

He keeps his attention on you, staring into your eyes. “Leave, everyone.”

One doctor steps forward cautiously. “Commander-“

“I will not repeat myself.” Lucifer calmly cuts the man off, “I would like to speak to _______ alone.”

After a moment of silence, those around bow respectfully before leaving the room. The door hasn’t been closed for more than a second before Lucifer’s lips are pressed against yours.

His kiss is tender yet demanding, sending a rush of warmth through your body. You melt against him despite your better judgment, with your medical concerns temporarily forgotten. When he finally pulls away, his emerald eyes burn with intensity.

"You take good care of me," he murmurs, his fingers tracing your jawline.

"I was just doing my job," you reply, trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism even as your heart races. "You shouldn't strain yourself. The wound is still fresh."

Lucifer smiles softly. "The pain... it subsides almost immediately."

Your gaze falls to the wound you treated. Already, the angry red edges have softened, with new tissue forming where there should only be raw flesh. It's not just the salve—there's something more happening when you apply it.

"I've been researching," you admit quietly. "I know your condition is specific. But I was hoping to find something about why my treatment works so effectively."

His tail wraps gently around your wrist, drawing you closer. "I don’t believe it’s only the salve that works. I’ve told you; you have some kind of gift.” He leans forward, placing a soft kiss on your lips. “I have a theory, it’s not just the salve that works, but it’s you. I’d like you to give us the recipe for the salve. Someone else can make it and see if it heals me like it does when you make it.”

You hesitate as the weight of his request settles on your shoulders. The recipe has been a family secret for generations, passed down with strict instructions never to share it. Yet Lucifer's gaze holds you captive; those emerald eyes seem to see straight through your reservations.

"I... I don't know if I should," you whisper, your fingers still resting near his healing wound. "There's a specific way it must be prepared."

Lucifer captures your hand in his, bringing your fingers to his lips. "Then teach someone. You can choose whoever you feel most comfortable with."

The thought makes you uncomfortable, though you can't fully articulate why. Is it loyalty to your family tradition, or something else? No, you were ready to give them the recipe when you first met Lucifer. Until that guard threatened you, is it a strange possessiveness over your role in Lucifer's care?

"What if it works the same way?" you ask.

"Then we'll have our answer," he replies simply. His tail tightens slightly around your wrist, a gentle pressure that feels oddly reassuring. “I believe it won’t though. I have a theory that you have to make and apply it for it to work properly.”

You bite your lower lip. If he’s wrong, that means you can easily be replaced when you give them the recipe. “If you’re wrong, someone else could take over it. A more talented, experienced doctor.” You keep a blank face, not wanting to look bothered, after all, you did enjoy your work helping the others on base. “Will my position be changed to the care of others then?”

Lucifer's eyes darken at your question, a shadow passing across his face. "No," he says firmly, his hand tightening slightly around yours before pressing another soft kiss against your knuckles. "Your position will remain unchanged regardless of the outcome."

He releases your hand and moves it to cup your cheek, his thumb gently brushing against your skin. "You misunderstand my intentions, _____. This isn't about replacing you. I want to test my theory; if I'm wrong, so be it. Regardless, you won’t leave my side."

His gaze captivates with an intensity that leaves you breathless. There's a reverent quality in the way he observes you now, as if you are a puzzle he is eager to unravel.

"What if I'm just... ordinary?" you whisper, voicing the fear that's been growing since he first suggested you might have special abilities. "What if there's nothing special about me at all?"

Lucifer's tail unwraps from your wrist, only for his hands to take its place, drawing you closer until you find yourself sitting on the edge of his bed. The closeness makes your heart race.

"There is nothing ordinary about you," he says softly. "I sensed it from the moment you first treated me. The way your hands move, the concentration in your eyes..." His gaze drops to your lips briefly before returning to your eyes. “The way your energy seems to flow into me." His voice drops to a whisper as he leans closer. "It's unlike anything I've experienced in all my centuries of existence."

You swallow hard, trying to process his words. Centuries of existence. A reminder of his age.

"Okay," you concede, meeting his gaze. "I'll write down the recipe and show someone how to prepare it. But I want to be present when it's applied."

Lucifer's lips curve into a satisfied smile. "Of course."

He pulls you closer, his tail tightening around your waist as he captures your lips once more. This kiss is different—slower, more deliberate, as if he's savoring every moment. When he finally releases you, you're breathless, your professional demeanor completely shattered.

"You should rest now," you manage to say, attempting to regain some composure. "You know your body still needs recovery time."

Lucifer nods, his eyes still reflecting a predatory intensity. “I want you to stay with me tonight.” He shifts slightly to the side, pulling back the covers and gazing at you expectantly.

You hesitate, "I shouldn't," though your protest lacks conviction.

"Why not?" Lucifer asks, his voice a gentle caress. His tail unwraps from your waist only to slide along your arm, the soft tuft at its end tickling your skin. “The door is locked; nobody will be allowed in without permission.”

"It's not about who might see," you reply, though you can feel your resolve weakening. "It's about maintaining professional boundaries."

Lucifer's laugh is low and melodious. "You’re not staying here as my doctor. You’re staying at my partner; take off the coat and get into bed _______.” He comments, eyeing the fact that you’re already in pajamas under the lab coat.

“Are you actually going to get rest?” You frown.

“Not much.” He admits, “But I have trouble resting either way; I’d rather you be by my side.”

You narrow your eyes. "You need to heal, Lucifer. I'm serious."

"And I'm serious about wanting you here," he counters. "Consider it part of my treatment plan."

Despite yourself, a small smile tugs at your lips. "That's a rather unorthodox prescription."

His tail curls around your wrist again, gently tugging. "_____. I want you by my side.”

With a sigh of surrender, you remove your lab coat and hang it carefully over a nearby chair. "Fine. But you have to promise to actually try to rest."

Lucifer smiles as he shifts to make room for you. The bed is comfortable as you slide under the covers beside him, careful not to disturb his healing wound. Immediately, his arm wraps around you, drawing you against his side.

“You-”

He cuts you off, his lips pressed against yours. Your protests die against his mouth, melting into a soft sigh as his warmth envelops you. His kiss is gentle yet insistent, and despite your better judgment, you find yourself responding. When he finally pulls away, his emerald eyes gleam with satisfaction in the dim light.

"This isn't resting," you murmur, though there's no genuine admonishment in your tone.

"It soothes me," Lucifer counters, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your spine. His tail drapes possessively across your hip, the soft tuft tickling the small of your back.

The intimacy of the moment strikes you suddenly—lying in bed with the King of Light, his body pressed against yours, his heartbeat steady beneath your palm. How did your life take such an extraordinary turn?

"What are you thinking about?" Lucifer asks, breaking into your thoughts.

"How strange this all is," you admit. “I went from being a normal doctor working in a hospital." Though with complete assholes and drama. "To working for the illuminati, becoming one of the personal doctors for the commander, who is a demon king, then beginning a relationship with the demon king.”

Lucifer chuckles softly, his fingers threading through your hair, and his tail tightens slightly around your hip. "Do you regret it?"

The question hangs in the air between you. Do you? Your life has been turned upside down, with everything you thought you knew about the world being challenged. Yet there's an exhilaration to it all—a sense of purpose and belonging you never found in your previous life.

"No," you answer honestly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I don't regret it."

His expression softens, those emerald eyes warming as they hold your gaze. "Good." He places a gentle kiss on your forehead. "Because I don't intend to let you go."

You rest your head against his chest, careful to avoid his healing wound, and listen to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “I still don’t completely understand what you’re trying to accomplish. I mean, I do, but I don’t at the same time. It seems so complicated.” You admit, running your fingers down his chest.

Lucifer's chest rises and falls beneath your fingertips, his heartbeat steady. For a moment, he remains silent, as if carefully considering his response.

"It is complicated," he finally admits, his voice a low rumble that vibrates against your palm. "I seek to create a world where demons and humans coexist without boundaries—where beings like myself aren't forced to struggle in vessels that cannot contain us." He slowly sits up in bed, and your doctor instincts kick in; quickly, you sit up too, hands on his biceps as you hold him, making sure he’s steady. “What are you doing? You need to-” He cuts you off once again with a kiss. “I’m not falling apart ______, I can kiss you. Hold you. Touch you.” He whispers, leaning in for another kiss. “I’m healthy enough right now.”

Your breath catches as his lips meet yours again, the intensity of his kiss making your head spin. When he pulls away, his emerald eyes are luminous in the dim light, filled with a hunger that sends heat coursing through your veins.

"Lucifer," you whisper, your doctor's instincts warring with the desire building within you. "Your wound..."

"Is fine," he finishes, guiding your hand to the site of his injury. The skin beneath your fingertips feels smoother and warmer—the wound is closing faster than it should be.

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer until you're nearly in his lap. "Do you see now? Your touch accelerates the healing. There's power in you, _____."

You stare at the rapidly healing wound, your medical mind struggling to reconcile what you are witnessing with what you know to be possible. "This is odd," you murmur, tracing the clear skin.

"No," Lucifer says, his voice dropping to a seductive purr. "It's extraordinary. This is from more than just the salve you make. It’s you that has powers _____.”

His hands slide up your arms to cup your face, thumbs brushing across your cheeks.

"I still think you should rest," you whisper, even as you lean into his touch.

"I've rested enough, my love," he counters, guiding you fully onto his lap. His tail coils around your waist, securing you against him.

His mouth claims yours again, more demanding this time. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, seeking entrance that you willingly grant. The kiss deepens, igniting a fire that spreads through your veins like wildfire. Your hands find their way to his shoulders and then to his chest, being careful to avoid the IVs attached to him.

Lucifer groans against your mouth, the sound vibrating through you. His hands slip beneath your pajama top, warm palms gliding across the sensitive skin of your back. Every touch sends electricity coursing through you, making it increasingly difficult to remember why this might be a bad idea.

"I can feel your hesitation," he murmurs against your lips.

You pull back slightly, meeting his emerald gaze. "It's concern for your well-being."

His expression softens, something like wonder flickers across his features. "Your dedication to my health is admirable," he says, tracing your lower lip with his thumb. "But unnecessary at this moment. Let go of your scientific constraints and focus on me as your lover."

His hands resume their exploration beneath your pajama top, warm palms sliding up your sides. Your breath hitches as his thumbs brush the undersides of your breasts, teasing but not quite touching where you crave him. His eyes hold yours captive, watching your reactions with predatory intensity.

"Tell me what you want, _____," he murmurs, his voice a seductive whisper that sends shivers down your spine.

"You," the word escapes before you can think better of it, honesty burning through your professional reservations. "I want you."

Something flashes in his emerald eyes—triumph, desire, perhaps something deeper. His tail tightens around your waist as he captures your mouth again, this kiss searing with barely restrained passion. In one fluid movement, he shifts your position, laying you back against the pillows with him hovering above you.

"Let me worship you," he whispers against your neck, trailing kisses down the column of your throat. His fangs graze your pulse point, and you slightly lift your hips at the feeling.

His hands slide beneath your pajama top again, this time lifting the fabric up. You raise your arms, letting him take it off completely. The cool air makes your skin prickle, or maybe it's the intensity of Lucifer's gaze as he takes in your form. His face conveys a devotion so intense that you feel both vulnerable and elevated.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you. His hands ghost over your skin, mapping every curve with deliberate slowness. When his thumbs finally brush across your nipples, you arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips.

He smiles, pleased by your response. "So sensitive," he observes, his tail unwinding from your waist to slide along your thigh. The soft tuft at its end teases the sensitive skin behind your knee, creating sensations that make you shiver.

Lucifer lowers his head, replacing his fingers with his mouth. The warm, wet heat of his tongue against your breast sends a jolt of pleasure through you, and your hands instinctively thread through his hair to hold him closer. He lavishes attention on one breast before moving to the other, while his tail continues its maddening journey up your thigh.

"Lucifer," you gasp, your body aflame with desire.

A ringing sound snaps you out of your haze. Quickly, you grab your shirt and pull it back on, feeling a slight panic at the idea of being caught. Lucifer stares at the door with a slight frown as you slip off the bed and pull on your lab coat. Another ringing follows, and Lucifer sighs as he watches you head toward the door. Glancing over your shoulder, he makes eye contact with you while pointedly covering his lower body better with the blanket.

When you see that both of you are decent, you open the door, and another doctor stands at the entrance, giving you a slightly confused look. “Dr. ______, I’m surprised to see you here.”

Lucifer calls out the doctor’s name to get his attention. “Is something wrong?”

“Sorry.” He lifts a folder in the air. “You said you wanted the results as soon as possible.”

After a brief pause, Lucifer nods. “Yes, I did. Thank you.” He motions for the doctor to come closer. The doctor opens the file and begins reading the results; they aren’t particularly interesting enough for the doctor to run to Lucifer’s room in the middle of the night. The doctor seems to realize this as there is no real change in Lucifer’s expression.

“Commander, I’m sorry to have bothered you with—"

Lucifer raises a hand. “No, I asked you to come to me with the results as soon as they were complete. You followed my orders.”

Still, the doctor looks nervous, realizing how unimportant the information he just shared in the middle of the night is; it’s something that should’ve waited until morning. However, he had been waiting for the results for hours and hadn’t checked the time until now. He quickly bows, apologizing again to Lucifer before apologizing to you too.

When the door closes behind him, the atmosphere has slightly changed, less charged than it was before the doctor knocked. You carefully walk back to Lucifer and pick up the salve on the small table by his side. Twisting the lid back on to keep it from drying out. “You really should get rest.”

To your surprise, he nods in agreement. “Yes, I will. You should rest as well. There is something important we need to discuss tomorrow, my love.”

“About the salve? I’m fine with-“

“No, it’s not the salve. I need time to clear my head; we’ll speak tomorrow.” He takes your hand and gently brings it to his lips, softly brushing against your knuckles. He then tugs on your hand, pulling you down to share a sweet kiss. “Goodnight _____.”

----------------------

Even though his words replayed in your mind as you tried to figure out what he might want to discuss, you fell asleep easily and slept soundly. Now it’s nearly lunchtime, and he still hasn’t brought it up.

Sitting by his side, you flip through your recorded notes. The salve is working wonders on him; based on previous records and information from other doctors, it seems to be the only thing that has helped keep his vessel mostly stable between the important treatments. Moments later, someone enters, carefully carrying two trays of food. You quickly stand to help them, taking one tray at a time and placing each one on the table beside Lucifer.

“______, I will be going into heat soon.” The commander speaks calmly as he turns to sit, his legs hanging off the bed as he faces you. Tubes are still connected to his vessel; at first, you were concerned, but he assured you there is an important reason they’re attached for this extended period.

“What does that mean? Are you okay? Do you need me to make more salve? I can go right away to pick up more-“

“No, it’s okay.” He softly chuckles. “Heat is something all demons go through, it’s similar to animals in heat.” He watches you closely, noting each of your reactions.

“So, you’ll be…” Your mind goes blank as you search for the right word, completely shocked that this is even an aspect of demons. You still have a lot to learn about them. Your fingers tap nervously on your lap, your lab coat suddenly feeling uncomfortable, the fabric scratchy against your skin.

He takes your hand gently, “Normally, it can be easily suppressed. However because I have a partner, it’s going to affect me differently. I’m giving you a choice. I want you to choose what is best for you not me.” His brow furrows slightly, he had been tempted to send you away. But being honest with you is better.

“I’ll stay.”

“No.”

You blink confusion wasn’t over you. Didn’t he just give me a choice?

He reaches forward, running his fingers along your jaw. “_____, it’s intense. The first few days, I’ll be insatiable, and you'll need to stay with me for a week, possibly longer.” He speaks calmly, yet concern is evident in his eyes. “After the initial days, I will be more affectionate and will want to take care of you, possibly overwhelmingly so.”

“I’ll stay.”

“No.”

Again?

“It’s essential for you think about it. Not only will I have an insatiable desire, but I will also be more demanding and will need you multiple times a day for the first day or two.” His gentle gaze sharpens slightly. “I'll say things and make demands. I’ll insist that you should bear my child each time.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy with implication. Your breath catches in your throat as you process what he's just revealed.

"A child?" you repeat, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lucifer nods, his emerald eyes fixed on yours. "It's the nature of demon heat; the primal instinct to reproduce becomes overwhelming." His tail flicks restlessly behind him, revealing his discomfort with the conversation. "I'll have little control over what I say during those moments, but I would never force you into that."

You swallow hard, trying to process this information with clinical detachment, but failing miserably. The thought of Lucifer wanting to impregnate you sends an unexpected wave of heat through your body that you struggle to ignore.

"When does it start?" you ask, proud that your voice remains steady.

"Three days from now," he replies, his fingers gently stroking the inside of your wrist where he still holds your hand. "I've already made arrangements to clear my schedule for the next two weeks."

"And if I stay... what exactly should I expect?"

His expression softens slightly as he speaks. "Intensity and possessiveness. I want to mark you as mine in every way possible." His thumb traces gentle circles on your palm, a soft gesture that contrasts with the seriousness of his words. "There will be times when I am rough, but I would never harm you. Additionally, I will insist on certain positions that increase the chances of conception."

You feel your cheeks flush hot at his frankness. "And if I don't want to get pregnant?"

"There are precautions we can take," Lucifer assures you, though something flickers in his eyes—disappointment? "They won't eliminate my verbal... expressions during the heat, but they will prevent conception."

"I need time to think," you finally say.

Lucifer nods. "Good. However, I need your answer by tomorrow at the latest. If you choose not to stay, I'll need to make alternative arrangements."

"Alternative arrangements?" The words slip out before you can stop them, a hint of jealousy coloring your tone.

Lucifer's eyes flash with something primal before his expression softens. "Isolation," he clarifies. "I would seclude myself until it passes. It would be... unpleasant, but manageable."

The tension in your shoulders eases slightly. "I see."

"The choice is yours," he says calmly. "However, it's important for you to fully grasp what you would be agreeing to. The first forty-eight hours will be the most intense. I will want you by my side constantly, and my possessiveness may surprise you in ways you don't expect."

You nod, trying to process everything he's telling you. "And after those first two days?"

"After that, the urgency subsides somewhat. I'll be more affectionate, more attentive to your needs." His thumb traces your jawline. "But still insatiable. I'll want to provide for you, to demonstrate I can care for you and..." he hesitates, "for any potential offspring. I'll want to take care of you in every way—feed you, bathe you, attend to your every need."

Your mind races with visions of what that might entail—Lucifer's hands washing your body, his fingers running through your hair, feeding you morsels from his own plate. The intimacy of it all makes your heart race.

"Will you be lucid throughout?" you ask, needing to know how much of the real Lucifer would be present during this heat.

"I will be lucid enough that I will not harm you. But I need you to understand, I will need you." His expression becomes serious. "That's why I need your clear consent now, while I am completely clear-headed."

You nod, “I understand. And you're sure the precautions would work? If I wanted to take them?"

"They are effective, yes. Though I should warn you that I will try to convince you not to use it during the heat." He swallows. “It’s even possible I will try to hint it before the heat starts. That’s why we need to figure everything out by tomorrow.”

The honesty of his admission makes you smile despite everything, and once again, you want to agree immediately. Though you know he’ll shut you down again, you’ll keep it to yourself until tonight.

He turns his attention to the lunch before you, “We should eat.”

0 notes

livelovehatedie · 2 months ago

Text

@popinavarro

He’s on you the second you open the door, observing you for any wounds, even as you drop into his arms. “Amaimon, please.” You wince as he lifts your leg to examine a bruise. “That hurts.” He ignores your complaints, just barely holding you up as he continues to examine your body. Finally he accepts that you’re all intact, just extremely sore and exhausted.

“Where are you going?” Amaimon asks as you try to pull away from him. His grip only tightens, making it more difficult to escape.

“I want to sit in the bath; I smell bad—"

“No you don’t.”

“-feel gross, and it’ll help my muscles.”

He seems to think about this for a moment before nodding in agreement. He loosens his hold on you, turning you around so you can use the sofa for support.

There must be some kind of wound on your back, you bite your lip to hold back a gasp when you’re pressed against the sofa. Not wanting Amaimon to hear and decide to start examining you again. Though when his fingers pause, undoing the buttons on your jacket, you realize he heard. “I’m fine.”

Amaimon ignores your comment, carelessly tugging at your clothing with his claws. You try to block out the sound of ripping fabric, and Amaimon removes your clothes, tugging your shirt over your head and removes your pants. He takes a step back, his eyes scan your body.

I guess I have more bruising than I thought. “Amaimon, help me get to the bathroom.”

He nods, hooking his left arm under your legs as he picks you up bridal style. “Who let you get hurt? I will kill them.” Amaimon casually comments as he walks down the hall.

“I was alone.”

“Oh.”

He sits you down on the toilet as soon as you enter the bathroom, but you quickly get back up. Amaimon doesn’t have sense of temperature like you do, if you let him control the water, he could either scald or freeze you. “Amaimon, I’m not helpless. It’s just a few bruises and sore muscles," you swat his hands away while you sit on the edge of the tub to adjust the water yourself.

Amaimon shifts his focus to the rest of your clothing, swiftly unhooking your bra and adjusting your legs slightly more toward him so he can remove your underwear.

His jacket drops to the floor beside your discarded underwear, followed by the rest of his clothes, piece by piece. He climbs into the tub first, settling comfortably across from the faucet. “Come here,” he commands, opening his arms for you.

You reach for something on the counter to keep your hair up. Carefully, you slip from the edge of the tub into his embrace and sigh in contentment. His hands immediately find your shoulders, gently massaging the sore muscles. He has improved at this since meeting you. “Amaimon, I’m tired.” You stifle a yawn as you lean back more against his firm chest.

His fingers slip from your sore shoulders and teasingly brush lightly against your arm as he reaches for the sponge. “You’re such a good boyfriend.” You praise him as he begins to run the soapy sponge along your body. “I’m your mate ______.” He bluntly responds, washing your back.

“Okay, you’re such a good mate Amaimon,” you chuckle, leaning back against him again as he begins to wash your legs.

“I know.”

0 notes

livelovehatedie · 2 months ago

Text

@popinavarro

“Are you okay?” you whisper to Shima, who stands tense in front of you. "Yes, I’ll help get rid of it," he replies, though his uncertainty is evident. Gripping a broom, he takes a step closer. “It’s not poisonous, right?” he asks you, glancing over his shoulder.

You nod, your eyes on the spider. “Right.” Shima squares his shoulders and takes another step forward. After a pause, you add, “Because spiders are venomous, not poisonous.”

The tiny bit of confidence he has falls quickly. “Wait, is this one venomous?”

You take a quiet step to your left, moving toward the hallway leading to your bedroom and safety. Are you willing to run and let Shima sacrifice himself? Yes, without a doubt. You’ll feel guilt for the rest of your life, but that’s just how life is. “Renzo, I don’t even know what kind of spider it is.” You refuse to get any closer to identify it. “But I think almost all spiders are venomous, so there’s that."

“Babe, that doesn’t help.” Shima’s faux bravely washes away completely. “What do we do?”

“Kill it.”

“What if it bites me?”

“Better you than me.”

Shima lowers his head. “I love you, so I will do this. Pray for me.” He sounds as if he’s going off to war. Taking a brave step forward, he swings the broom at the spider. You both watch in horror as it merely knocks the spider down.” You’re fairly certain that didn’t kill it.

Your eyes quickly scan the area. “Where did it go!?”

“I don’t know!”

-----------------

“Renzo, you failed at one of the top ten boyfriend duties.” You huff as you open your laptop, and Shima climbs onto the bed beside you, a look of confusion on his face. “Wait, what?”

“You can’t even kill a bug for your girlfriend?”

Shima wraps his arms around you, “What about you? You can’t kill a bug for your boyfriend? I’ve exorcised demons for you!" He leans in closer, putting all his weight on you and causing you to fall back against the bed. "After everything I’ve done for you, you can’t even handle a bug?" he jokes, pressing his lips against your cheek.

"You exorcise demons for a living," you retort, trying to push his weight off you but failing miserably. "That's literally your job description."

"Yeah, but I do it with extra flair when you're watching," he grins, his pink hair falling across his forehead as he hovers over you. "Besides, bugs and demons are in completely different categories."

You raise an eyebrow. "So you'd rather face a demon than a tiny spider?”

“Is neither an option?”

You start to respond, but the vibrating phone diverts your attention. Pushing him away, you stand up and grab the phone. “Hello?”

“______, we will be late getting home tonight.” Your mother’s voice comes through the speaker. “My extra debit card is in the drawer by the stove. You can order dinner, and no boys over when we aren’t home.”

"Of course, Mom," you say, rolling your eyes at Shima, who is lounging on your bed with a mischievous grin. "No boys at all. I’m not even that close to any boys.” You scoff. Despite dating Shima for the last three months, you’ve kept it hidden from your parents.

"Hmm, that's a shame," Shima whispers after you hang up, stretching lazily across your bed. "Guess I should leave then, since there are 'no boys allowed.'"

You toss your phone aside and crawl back onto the bed. "Shut up. You're not going anywhere."

"So rebellious," he teases, pulling you down beside him. "I like it."

You lean against him, enjoying the warmth of his body beside yours. "My parents would freak if they knew about us."

“Why?”

“You have pink hair. That right there is more than enough reason for them.” You roll your eyes.

Shima playfully twirls a strand of your hair between his fingers. "My hair is just one of my many charms," he says with a wink. "I’m sure your parents will come to like me eventually. I'm very likable."

"Oh really?" You prop yourself up on your elbow, looking down at him with a playful smirk. "And what unique 'charms' do you think you possess, Renzo Shima?"

His eyes darken slightly as he slides his hand to the small of your back, pulling you closer. "Want me to show you instead?" His voice drops to a whisper that sends a shiver down your spine.

"It depends," you reply softly, your heartbeat quickening as his fingers lazily trace patterns against your shirt. "Are you run away screaming if another spider appears?"

“Ouch.”

“What do you want for dinner?” you ask, leaning forward to press your lips against his.

"Mmm," he hums softly as he kisses you, his hand gently cupping your cheek. "How about pizza? Or we could order takeout from that place you like near True Cross."

You pull back slightly, considering. "Pizza sounds good. Longer delivery time gives us more time for..." you trail off, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

"More time for studying, of course," Shima finishes with mock innocence, though his eyes glint mischievously. "What else could you possibly mean?"

You laugh and reach for your phone. "Right, studying. Great idea.” You hop off the bed and carefully walk out of the room. There’s bug spray under the sink in the kitchen, and as long as you can get there, everything will be fine. Taking a deep breath, you keep your eyes focused on the kitchen, determined not to pause or look at where the spider might be.

Unsurprisingly, Shima follows you, just as cautiously. “Wait, _____, I think we can do something else instead of studying,” he complains.

“It’s too late; you’ve already made your decision.” You laugh as you open the cabinet. “Now, my knight in shining armor, go spray the entire living room.” You raise the can and shake it slightly, gesturing for him to take it.

Shima dramatically groans, eyeing the can of bug spray as if it might bite him. "I thought I was your boyfriend, not your exterminator."

"Today, you get to play both roles," you say sweetly, pressing the can into his hesitant hands. "Think of it as multitasking in our relationship."

"Fine," he sighs, taking the bug spray with visible reluctance. "But you owe me."

"I'll order extra cheese on the pizza," you bargain, leaning against the counter.

"That's a start," he says, cautiously stepping toward the living room. "But I'm thinking of something more... intimate."

You can't help but smile at his shameless flirting even in the face of arachnid terror. "Just kill the spider, Romeo."

Shima grips the can like a weapon, his knuckles white from holding it so tightly. You observe from the safety of the kitchen as he inches forward, muttering what sounds suspiciously like an exorcism prayer under his breath.

"You know bug spray isn't holy water, right?" you joke.

"Not helping!" he hisses back, scanning the floor with the intensity of someone searching for a bomb. "Where did it even go?"

"I don't know! Just spray everywhere!"

"That's wasteful," he protests, but starts spraying along the baseboards anyway. "And probably bad for the environment."

"Since when do you care about the environment?" you question, still safely in the kitchen doorway.

"Since it became a convenient excuse not to—" Shima freezes mid-sentence, his eyes widening. "There it is!"

You follow his gaze to see the spider scuttling across the floor toward the TV stand. "Kill it! Kill it now!"

In a panic, Shima sprays wildly in the spider's direction, creating a small chemical fog in your living room. You both watch with bated breath as the spider's movements slow, then stop completely.

"Is it...dead?" you whisper.

Shima inches closer, still clutching the bug spray like a lifeline. "I think so?"

"Poke it with something."

"What? No!" He looks at you like you've suggested he jump off a cliff. "You poke it!"

"You're the exorcist!"

"And you're the one who made me face this eight-legged monster in the first place!" Shima protests, taking a step back from the motionless spider. "Besides, what if it's playing dead?"

"Spiders don't play dead," you argue, though you're not entirely sure that's true. "Just...use the broom handle."

Shima frantically looks around, spotting the broom he had abandoned earlier. With exaggerated caution, he retrieves it and extends it toward the spider as if he's poking a sleeping bear. The instant the bristles touch the arachnid, he jumps back.

"It didn't move!" he announces triumphantly. "I think we're safe."

You exhale in relief. "My hero," you say with just enough sarcasm to make him pout.

"I faced my greatest fear for you," Shima says, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. "I deserve a medal. Or at least a kiss."

Nodding in agreement, you step closer, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “A kiss.” Leaning forward, you lightly brush your lips against his and quickly pull away before he can respond. “A kiss.” You grin. However, as you attempt to walk away, he pulls you against him. “Don’t tease me. I risked my life for you.” He smirks just before leaning in and pressing his lips to yours. The kiss begins softly, but his hand moves to the back of your neck, holding you gently as he deepens it. His other hand rests at your waist, pulling you closer. Then, he gives your side a quick pinch, making you gasp. That’s all he needs—his tongue slips into your mouth, brushing lightly against yours as he kisses you more firmly. When you finally pull away, you bite your lower lip before grinning.

“I’m so glad you improved.”

“Improved what?”

“Kissing, remember our first—” His hand quickly covers your mouth. “What are you talking about? Some weird dream? Because we definitely didn’t have an awkward first kiss like that.”

“If you say so, Renzo,” you tease, before pressing your lips against his again.

0 notes

livelovehatedie · 2 months ago

Text

@popinavarro

You sigh, sitting on the sofa as Mephisto serves you a cup of tea. “How do you feel, darling?”

“It feels like I’m being stabbed.” You respond honestly, keeping your eyes on the TV. “The first day is always the hardest. Shouldn’t you be in your office? I assume you have more important things to do than watch me watching TV.” You glance at Mephisto out of the corner of your eye.

The dramatics kick in as Mephisto looks at you, absolutely offended. “What could possibly be more important than my beautiful queen?”

“Assiah.”

"Since you're in Assiah, it’s naturally important.”

“Anime.”

“Of course not.”

“Instant ramen.”

“No.”

“Video games.”

“Stop, you’re tearing my heart apart! You truly believe those trivial things are worth more to me than you?” He places a hand theatrically over his heart and collapses beside you. “Anime? More significant than my queen?”

“Right, anyway, could you grab a heating pad? At least be useful if you’re going to skip work.”

He straightens immediately and scans your body. “Part of the pain is how you are sitting; you need to stretch out more.” Before you can respond, he lifts his hand, snapping his fingers. Suddenly, you find yourself on a bed that seems to belong in one of the spare bedrooms.

“Why are we in the spare bedroom?” You question relaxing on the bed, as you stare at the ceiling.

“Well my darling, we’ve recently acquired some luxurious new sheets that were rather pricey.” He carefully climbs onto the bed beside you, his claws grazing softly along your thigh, having shed his gloves at some point. “I do believe this will be the best alternative to ensure my queen's utmost comfort.”

“Does this comfort plan include a heating pad?”

Mephisto leans over you, a smug smile playing on his lips. “My darling, there are countless ways to ensure your comfort. Over the past few years, haven’t we discovered the most effective ways to alleviate your pain?” Despite his words, a heating pad featuring adorable, chibi Mephisto figures materializes in his hand. After another snap, he changes you until you only have a t-shirt and underwear on. Along with your outfit, he removed something important.

“Really?” You cross your legs, taking the heating pad from him. “My flow is always heavy for the first two to three days, so I should be using something. I know this is our spare bed, but I’d rather not stain it.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t plan to waste a single drop,” Mephisto quips, a sly smirk playing on his lips as he tantalizingly licks his bottom lip, his eyes glinting with mischief. He gently pushes your shirt up, stopping just below your breast, and places the heating pad on your abdomen.

You let out a content sigh as the warmth seeps in, easing the cramps. With your eyes closed, you settle back against the bed, unfazed by Mephisto’s movements, even when he tugs at your underwear with his fingers. "I understand the heating pad brings relief," he begins, sliding his fingers into the waistband of your underwear for added emphasis, "but there are other methods to ease your cramps—methods we both find pleasurable."

You open one eye, peering at him. "Is that your not-so-subtle way of saying you want to have sex?"

"Subtle? Me?" Mephisto's lips curl into a devilish grin as he slides between your legs, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. "I thought I was being quite direct, my love.”

The heating pad shifts as he leans closer, his forest green eyes darkening with desire. You can't help but laugh at his eagerness, though the sound transforms into a soft gasp when he slides the underwear down your legs. “You seem a little too exhausted for sex, so I just wanted to focus on the most important part. You smell delicious; I hate the idea of this going to waste.” As he speaks, he runs a finger along your folds.

A shiver runs through you at his touch, your body responding despite the dull ache in your abdomen. "You're hopeless," you murmur, though there's no real protest in your voice.

"I’m appreciative," Mephisto corrects, his hair falling forward as he lowers his head to press a gentle kiss to your inner thigh. "Every aspect of you deserves worship, especially during these times when your body performs such... fascinating natural magic."

You roll your eyes at his poetic framing of menstruation but can't suppress a small moan when his tongue replaces his finger, tasting you with deliberate slowness. The warmth of the heating pad combined with the heat of his mouth creates a contrast that momentarily makes you forget your discomfort.

"Better already?" he inquires, looking up at you with those entrancing eyes, a crimson smear on his lips makes you roll your eyes.

"Getting there," you admit, threading your fingers through his purple locks. "Though I need more of your attention."

Mephisto's laugh is dark and rich against your sensitive skin. "Then allow me to be thorough in my treatment," he purrs, his breath hot against your core. "After all, what kind of partner would I be if I left you in such distress?"

He moves with practiced precision, savoring every response from your body. Your grip tightens in his hair, drawing a pleased hum from deep in his throat that vibrates against you deliciously. The cramping pain begins to recede, replaced by waves of pleasure that make your toes curl.

"Mephisto," Your nails slightly dig into his scalp while arching slightly against the sheets as the tip of his tongue brushes against your clit.

He lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze, his gaze gleaming with satisfaction at your response. "Patience, my love," he whispers, his breath teasing your sensitive flesh. "Let me take care of you properly."

He returns to your center with renewed purpose, circling your clit with precision. The sensation sends electric pulses through your body, making you forget the cramping entirely. Your back arches involuntarily as he delves deeper, tasting every inch of you with reverent dedication.

"Oh god," your fingers tighten in his purple locks. The pressure of his mouth against you is intoxicating, each stroke building a delicious tension in your core.

Mephisto hums against you, and slowly, he pulls away. “Not God, if anything, I worship you.” His large, powerful hands firmly grip your thighs, keeping them spread wide open to receive his attentions as he worships you with his mouth. The sight of his head nestled between your legs, his emerald eyes occasionally flickering upward to assess your every expression, only serves to amplify the mounting pleasure.

He moves lower, diving deeper inside, exploring with passionate intensity. Getting what he desires most. “You’re delectable.” He whispers against you, running his tongue over your opening, collecting more of the menstrual blood.

The sensation makes your entire body quiver. Each stroke sends ecstasy rippling through you, temporarily erasing all discomfort. The cramps that had plagued you moments ago dissolve into nothingness, replaced by an intense heat that builds from your core and spreads outward.

"Mephisto," you gasp, your fingers pulling his hair harder when he teasingly pulls back, just barely touching you. Your hips lift involuntarily, seeking more of the pressure.

He responds by gripping your thighs more firmly, his thumbs making small, soothing circles against your skin as he devours you with passionate devotion. The contrast between his cool hands and hot mouth leaves you breathless.

"That's it, my love," he murmurs against your sensitive flesh, his voice vibrating through you. "Give it all to me."

His lips close around your clit, sucking gently while his tongue flicks rapidly across the sensitive bundle of nerves. The dual sensation is overwhelming, causing your back to arch sharply off the bed. Your mind goes blank, conscious thought replaced by pure, unadulterated yearning.

The world narrows to a pinpoint of ecstasy as your orgasm crashes through you. Your thighs tremble against Mephisto's grip, your body tensing and releasing in rhythmic pulses. He doesn't relent, drawing out your desire with deliberate, measured strokes until you're gasping his name like a prayer.

When the intensity finally subsides, leaving you feeling faint and panting, Mephisto rises to his full, imposing height. His white blazer is immaculate as ever, though his lips glisten with evidence of his devotion. He wipes his mouth with his thumb, then licks it clean with theatrical slowness.

"Better?" he asks, his voice a silken purr.

"Much," you admit, feeling the pleasant heaviness in your limbs that only comes after intense release. The cramps have receded to a dull, distant ache, easily ignored. "I love you.”

Mephisto's laugh is low and pleased as he adjusts the heating pad that had shifted during your enthusiastic activities. "I love you too.”

“Did you make a mess?” You question, staring at the ceiling.

“And waste this? Never.” He smirks, leaning back down to lick you once again. “If it wouldn’t overstimulate you, I’d never stop.”

His satisfaction is almost tangible as he slides onto the bed beside you, one long arm draped possessively across your waist. "Your essence is particularly... potent during these times."

You turn to face him, noting the smug satisfaction radiating from his elegant features. "You make it sound like you're consuming some rare vintage wine instead of..." you trail off, gesturing vaguely toward your lower half.

"Isn't it, though?" His fingers trace lazy patterns on your exposed skin. "A unique blend, available only during specific cycles, with notes that change subtly throughout." He leans closer, his breath warm against your ear. "And unlike wine, this particular vintage is exclusively mine."

“Glad you enjoy it. The pain and just the fact I’m bleeding out of my vagina for multiple days sucks.” You sigh, moving the heating pad a bit lower.

Mephisto hums to himself looking thoughtful for a moment, “Well, there happens to be a way to stop it.”

“Birth control.”

“Pregnancy.”

You narrow your eyes and stare at him. “You always bring up stuff at the oddest times.”

“Your answer?”

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