#or a stash of molly (ah-ha me made joke!)

[thelastunicornflipouts]

Love how everyone looks the same (mostly) except for Rukh and Schmendrick who had been changed entirely.

And that's good because Schmendrick looks like the junkie uncle everyone avoids during family events.

[esmealux]

Bloody Hell

Part: 1 / 2

Setting: After 5a

Word count: 3K

Rating: T

Summary: Lucifer’s first period.

The elevator dings as Lucifer reaches the penthouse. ‘And the Devil’s back! I found your breakfast burritos and now a guy owes me a favour, so all in all, a successful trip,’ he tells her as he takes off his jacket and places it on the bar. With Chloe’s breakfast in hand, he turns towards his sofa to grin at her, only to discover she isn’t lying there, closer to ‘naked’ than ‘dressed’, like she was when he left to fetch her some food.

‘Detective?’ he calls out, walking up the steps to his bedroom. The bed is empty apart from the crumbled black silk sheets and her bra. His heart starts drumming a little faster against his ribcage.

‘Detective, where are you?’ His voice is rough and squeaky, the words almost resonating off the walls in the silent penthouse. Much too silent.

He starts searching the entire place, looking for signs of struggle and clues that’ll show him which one of his wretched siblings has kidnapped her this time. After investigating the living room and balcony thoroughly, turning every piece of furniture, looking behind every curtain, he goes back to his bedroom to check if she’s miraculously popped up. When she (still) isn’t under the bed, he’s inflamed, his annoyance and anxiety building into infernal heat, spreading through his body like a wildfire. ‘Detective, I swear to you, I will punish whoever-’

‘Lucifer, calm down,’ he suddenly hears her say, her voice muffled. The sound has relief washing over him, calming down his blazing body. ‘I’m in here.’

As he realises she’s in the bathroom, he hurriedly strides down the hall, presses his body to the door, and yanks down the handle. It’s locked. Panic still hot in his throat, he clenches his hand around the gold, ready to break in when she snaps at him from behind the door. ‘Jesus, Lucifer, what have I told you about privacy?!’

He wants to comment on her choice of exclamation, but something in her voice stops him. ‘Right. Sorry, Detective.’ He puts a hand on the door, tenderly. ‘I just- Are you okay?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ she assures him, still a little peeved. ‘Could you just do something for me, please?’

‘Anything your heart desires,’ he says with a grin, the last embers of fear now put out by the sound of her slightly annoyed (and thus natural) voice.

‘Well, I really desire that you find my purse and bring it to me. I think I put it on the bar.’

He frowns, thinking. ‘Uhm, no. You didn’t. In fact, it’s not anywhere in the penthouse, I’m afraid.’

‘Wha- You already looked?’ she asks, surprised.

‘Well, technically, yes.’

He hears her mutter something along the lines of ‘what does that even mean?’ before she, quite sceptically, asks, ‘Are you sure? Lucifer, I’m not in the mood for pranks right now.’

When are you ever? he thinks, still disappointed she didn’t appreciate his creativity last time he tried to lighten the mood. But he’s not looking to rouse her now, so he tells her the truth, hoping it will allay her annoyance, inexplicable as he finds it. ‘If you really must know, I spent five full minutes searching the entire place for signs that you’d been hurt by one of my pathetic relatives, so yes, Detective, I am pretty damn sure your little too big and quite mum-ish bag isn’t here,’ he tells her. He hears her grunt a profanity he’s only ever heard her moan ecstatically in the throes of passion; now it’s laced with frustration and despair. Something is going on with her, and he needs to figure out what it is before she ruins more of his favourite words.

‘Why on Earth do you need your rucksack in my bathroom anyway?’

‘It’s not a rucksack,’ she tells him.

‘Ah, nice try! But I will not let you deflect my truly relevant question. What is it you need, Detective?’ He tries again, more inquisitively this time.

No answer.

His brow creases with worry and the slightest hint of an ache settles in his chest. ‘What’s going on?’

Several heart beats pass. He tries to remain patient but after seven seconds, his hands are banging on the door and yanking down the antique French handle aggressively. ‘Detective, let me in please! Did you use the razor Maze made you? I told you not to do that! Are you hurt? Did you trip? Do you have a nosebleed? Dearie me, did you get yourself poisoned again? I- Just please tell me what’s wrong. Whatever it is, I want to help,’ he says, his voice going softer towards the end. With anyone else, he’s not easily alarmed, but the Devil’s girlfriend does tend to get herself into danger a little more often than the average person.

He hears her sigh, short and sharply. ‘If you want to help me, you need to calm down,’ she tells him in the same slow and placid voice she uses on people who are bold enough to point a gun at her. ‘I’m fine.’

He takes a deep, shaky breath, her words easing his nerves a little.

‘Then why are you acting so… strange? And why in Dad’s name are you hiding in my bathroom? I mean, bloody hell, Detective, I was mere seconds from filing an MPR!’

She snorts, murmuring something about a drama queen. Then silence. A deep breath.

‘Well,’ she finally says, still an annoyed edge to her tone. ‘‘Bloody hell’ is not that far off, actually.’

He knits his brow. ‘Excuse me?’

She sighs deeply behind the door. ‘It’s just, uhm, you know… lady stuff.’

He blinks, dumbfounded.

‘Oh,’ is what he replies.

He would tease her about the euphemism, pretend he doesn’t understand, but he understands. He understands everything. Thinking back to the night before, he remembers her acting a little oddly then as well - giggly and gleeful one moment, fractious and bitter the next. He’d blamed it on her tipsiness, but now that he thinks about it, and does the math, she did take him hostage on a similar emotional rollercoaster ride, one, two, three, circa four weeks ago. And, yes, four weeks before that, too. The first time, he’d thought it was the stress from having her mother stay over for the urchin’s birthday. The second time, he’d indicted the particularly troubling case they’d been working. But it hadn’t (solely) been Penelope Decker nor a frustrating and possibly record-breaking number of dead ends that had made the Detective chaotically jump around the emotional spectrum to the point he’d worried she was suffering from a light personality disorder. No, apparently, it was the tiny rascals known to humans as ‘hormones’ who’d been wreaking havoc in her brain, manipulating her emotions – then and now.

He hasn’t uttered anything apart from the one (cleverly phrased) syllable since the revelation, and she must interpret his silence as lack of comprehension, because she begins to explain the bloody thing: ‘You know, when a woman-’

‘Yes, thank you, Detective, I am familiar with the concept of menstruation. Quite popular method of torture in Hell, actually,’ he informs her, cutting her biology lesson short.

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Well, surprisingly, it’s mostly-’

‘That was a rhetorical- Never mind.’

He hears more than just annoyance in her voice now; she’s in pain. His chest aches again. ‘Is something wrong? I mean, I have met a lot of women whose deepest desires were to be knocked out cold during Aunt Flo’s monthly visit, but at least we know for certain there isn’t a mini-Satan inside you, ravaging your uterus,’ he points out in an attempt to cheer her up. It’s mostly a joke, because it shouldn’t be possible—isn’t possible—and yet a part of him is still exceedingly relieved that she, after three weeks of thoroughly unprotected (and sinfully delectable) sex with him, isn’t carrying, well, the Devil’s spawn.

‘Kinda feels like someone’s ravaging my uterus,’ she says with a groan. His heart starts pounding, hard and deafening. Dark spots appear before his eyes as blood leaves his head.

‘I- that’s not- what?’

‘No, Lucifer. Relax. I’m not pregnant.’ She tries to sound mild and calm, but he can tell she’s aggravated, and horribly pained. ‘It’s just cramps.’

‘Oh, right,’ he mumbles, a full-blown panic attack officially averted. Still, something in her voice makes his teeth grit and his eyes flare red. He wants to punish whatever in her body is putting her through such… torture, wants to torture it back. Or, since he can’t really do that, just have a quick chat with his father and whoever assisted him in designing the inhumanly excruciating menstrual cramps. (And humans think the Devil is the one who’s truly evil.) But he realises a family discussion might not actually help his suffering Detective right now, so instead he wills his voice to sound calm and asks her, ‘Is there anything I can do?’

As he waits, quite impatiently, for her answer, he pulls out his phone and googles ‘what to do when your girlfriend’s surfing the crimson wave.’ He’s about to tap on the top hit when she replies, ‘Uhm, well, yes, there is, actually.’ Her words both surprise and delight him. He loves to feel needed.

‘Lovely! Whatever you need, I’m here to fix it as your very own PA.’  He puts his phone back, letting his hand stay in his pocket, and clarifies, ‘Period Assistant.’ As usual, she rudely ignores his clever play on words.

‘Okay, I just need to know if you have any… stuff? Like, maybe Eve had a stash somewhere?’

‘Stuff?’ he asks, beyond clueless as to what she’s hinting at.

‘Yeah, you know-’ she starts explaining when he interrupts her, suddenly remembering. ‘Well, come to think of it, Eve did indeed have a stash!’

‘She did?’ She sounds relieved, and it makes his heart flutter a little. ‘Do you know where? ‘Cause I searched all your cabinets, but I couldn’t find anything.’

‘Uh, I’m pretty sure it’s in my bookshelf,’ he says, already turning to go find it. ‘Would you prefer marijuana or molly?’

‘For God’s sake, Lucifer!’ she screams behind him, the door between them doing very little to lower the sound. ‘I don’t need freaking party drugs! This,’ she says, breathing angrily. A couple of seconds pass. ‘This is what I need.’

A tissue slides out under the door. With a raised eyebrow, he bends down to pick it up and sees that she’s scribbled some words on it with what appears to be an eyeliner. He doesn’t know what any of them mean. Well, ‘ibuprofen’ and ‘don’t be an ass’ he understands, but the rest are foreign to him.

‘Right, are these strippers’ names, or…? I think I’ve made a deal with an Always once, actual-’

‘They’re feminine hygiene products, Lucifer! I need feminine hygiene products! I want you to go buy me a whole lot I can leave in here, so I’ll never need to have this conversation ever again!’ she shouts, fuming all of a sudden. ‘So go out, and get me some tampons and pads—and that’s pads with wings! ‘Cause I swear to God, Lucifer, if you come back with pads that do not have wings, I might actually cut off your d-’

‘Yes, we get the picture, Detective!’ he cuts her off, chuckling nervously. It’s not that he hasn’t experienced his partner pissed before (he calls it Tuesday as a matter of fact), but she’s never threatened to mutilate him. ‘Whatever you need,’ he appeases her, his voice sweet and velvety. ‘Anything else?’ He reads the list she has given him, carefully paying attention to every request this time. ‘Right, ibuprofen for the- yes, your cramps. I’m afraid I’ve run out, but I’m sure I can get some wherever I’ll find,’—he squints his eyes to focus on the words — ‘Always ultra thin super long pads with flexie-wings and… Tampax pearl compak super. I mean, who the Hell names these things? Not that it matters, of course. If that’s what you need, that’s what you’ll get,’ he assures her.

As he studies her order closely one more time, his stomach growls and he realises that neither of them has eaten anything yet. He immediately offers to bring her breakfast to her; surely, her body needs alle the strength it can get to overcome whatever unpleasant side-effects other than dysmenorrhea his oh, so benevolent father has so generously granted the female population of the Earth.

‘Yes, please,’ she croaks meekly behind the door in response to his offer. ‘That would be nice.’

He goes to retrieve the burritos from atop the piano where he’d dropped them in the haste of his search. Once he’s back with them, he—gently—knocks on the door. After a couple of seconds, he hears the key turn before she opens the door just enough to reach out her arm through the crack. He’s about to give her the branded paper bag, when he thinks twice of it and instead takes her hand in his, entwining their fingers. Softly, he strokes the back of her hand and pulls it lightly, prompting her to come out. When she opens the door a little more, the sight that greets him stings his heart. Exhaustion has coloured the skin beneath her eyes purple and her usually ocean blue eyes a matte grey. Her posture is oddly sunken, like she wants to curl into a ball, and her chest heaves as she breathes heavily. She looks truly miserable, and yet she’s still a sight for sore eyes, as she stands there, wearing one of his white Prada shirts and…

‘Are those… my boxers?’ he asks her with a raised eyebrow and a pleased smile. She looks down to where his eyes have just landed. ‘Well, yeah, I couldn’t- my own underwear…,’ she trails off. ‘I’ve lined them with paper towels, just so I don’t, you know. I hope it’s okay.’ She looks strangely sheepish. He leans over to place a kiss on her forehead. ‘Oh, it’s more than okay. It’s sexy,’ he tells her with a grin. ‘And quite cute, to be frank.’

She chuckles, replacing the ache in his chest with a pleasant, buzzing warmth. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use the word “cute” before,’ she points out, looking up at him through her long eyelashes as she leans her forehead against his. He notices the hint of a smile on her lips, and his own smile grows wider. ‘Well, you’ve never worn my underwear before,’ he reminds her, nuzzling her nose. ‘Mmm, that is true.’ Her voice is nothing but a whisper as she leans just an inch forward to get a kiss from him, which he happily he gives her.

‘Why don’t you draw yourself a nice, hot bath,’ he proposes, booping her nose. Then an image from Jaws invades his mind, and warily, but with a glint in his eyes, he adds, ‘Unless that would make a true bloodbath.’ She pulls away from him, slowly but purposefully. Untangling their hands, she crosses her arms across her chest (he tries not to notice how it makes her cleavage deliciously peek out behind his hardly buttoned shirt). She glares at him with a look which, historically, means they will be communicating exclusively in scoffs, snorts, death stares and well, I am truly sorry for whatever it is I’ve done but can we please forget about it and go back to being a dynamic duo’s the rest of the day. With a short yet undoubtedly disapproving shake of her head, she snatches the breakfast bag from his hand before slamming the door in his face. ‘Detective, I-’ he stammers as the gush of air hits his front, possibly making his yet to be tamed bed hair look even more scandalous.

He hears the rustling and crinkling of paper as she takes out her breakfast. ‘List,’ she demands sharply with her mouth full—and not in the way that had him gripping the sheets till his knuckles turned white last night. By the sound of her voice, he’ll need to do right by her if he wishes to ever experience that again.

‘Yes, darling, I’ll do nothing but my best,’ he promises her, casting a last glance at the list in question before folding it neatly into his pocket. He starts walking down the hall when the sound of his name makes him turn on his heels to face the door. He senses another reprimand and braces himself, softly offering a simple ‘Detective?’ in response.

‘Thank you.’ Her voice is sweet and apologetic, all aggravation suddenly gone.

‘What on-’ he mumbles under his breath, completely bewildered by her emotional U-turn. He’s wise enough not to comment on it, however, smiles instead, glad he can be of use, and playfully, yet still in a tone that assures her he means no harm, says, ‘Well, it’s the least I can do for my menstruating partner.’

‘Please stop saying “menstruating”,’ she tells him between bites, sounding a little brassed off again. He considers asking her why but decides against it, responding with a simple ‘Noted’ instead.

He hears the shower start running and decides to depart, wanting to be back before she’s done. ‘Alright then, off I go on my quest!’ he sings out, hoping it’s loud enough for her to hear over the shower spray, but the water stops and she calls out a ‘what?’. She has probably already stepped into the shower cabin, adorning his bathroom with all her wet and naked glory. Oh, to be a marble tile on the wall, getting an unobstructed view of her exquisite br-

‘Did you say something, honey?’ she calls again when he hasn’t replied. It’s not the first time she uses the term of endearment, but it still makes warmth pool low in his stomach. He’s so smitten—not a cell in his body can deny that anymore. Especially not the part of his body that’s currently straining his tailored slacks.

He clears his throat and shamelessly adjusts himself.

‘Hm? No, I was just announcing my exit. Try not to bleed to death while I’m gone, will you?’

‘I can’t- That’s not possi-’ she stammers behind him as he makes his way to the elevator, grabbing his jacket as he walks past the bar. Before she can finish whatever protest she’s trying to enounce, he’s already in the elevator, sending a text to Linda:

What in the ever-living Hell does ‘pads with wings’ mean?

Read part 2, ‘Granniest Panties’, here