#naughtyimps

He sees all the preparations Millie's made for Rut!

"Oh wow! Someone prepared for something hungry and scary! Must be an aggressive, big-dicked demon you're worried about..." he teased. "You think you can take 'em..." he purred, tail looping into a heart.

He was almost distracted by all the snacks on the table but as it was, he couldn't stop gazing at his wife, moonstruck as ever. But with the rut being at its peak, more of a feral lust than usual, played in his eyes. So he didn't stay put behind the table for long, sneaking around it mischievously, fangs bared. "You think you're really prepared for all this?" (( lol adorable roleplay ))

Millie's tail lashes like a whip as she squares her shoulders and feet, a cocky smirk twitching the corner of her mouth. There was something thrilling about how feral Moxxie got during his ruts. The way he talked, the way his growl got that little bit deeper, the way his eyes followed her like a caged animal already licking its chops.

It made him a challenge and a fun one at that~

"Oh Moxxie~" She smirked deviously, taking a good firm grip of his ass and giving it a possessive squeeze. "Keep talkin' like that and I'll be tempted to push that cushion so hard, you won't walk fer a week~"

Send 👀 to walk in on my muse naked

PALM COVERS NEARLY THE WHOLE BREADTH OF THE IMP'S CHEST,

a vast weight pressed lightly upon a tiny body that shakes as though awaiting lashings of fire; but beneath his fingers he feels it: the frantic hammer of a small, defiant heart; a rhythm not unlike a sparrow battering itself against glass - he trembles as though michael is to erase him, yet what he feels there is not corruption, but PULSE, will, fragile continuity; and it fascinates him.

(how strange, that such a small vessel can hold so much - fear, determination, even LOVE. perhaps the answer to his questions lays not in the cosmos, falling on his father's deaf ears, but the BOWELS of hell itself.)

the archangel's intensely curious gaze lowers, fathomless dark hues glowing with something unsettling, perilously close to amusement; the corner of his mouth curves in an expression that for him, usually donning a mien solemn with iron discipline, is nearly riotous.

"not in trouble - well, not more than you were before."

he murmurs, voice softened to warmth, though it still reverberates through the room like the chime of a bell. his head inclines, almost conspiratorial, locks of his mane of curls spilling upon the imp beneath him. "you have made a career of mischief and meddling, yes - but you may rest easy. you have not yet earned my punishment."

his hand lingers, thumb shifting faintly over the imp's ribs and his rapid beat.

"besides …" the prince of the host allows the faintest trace of humour to colour his tone, "… it would be unseemly to crush you when you are so helpless." (here he is, measuring the frail percussion of a hellborn's heart as if it were music; perhaps that is the greater HERESY - that the pulse of even this fragile imp is more company than silence has given him in eons.)