I stood behind her with my hands clasped behind my back, posture neat, chest warm. Goodness, the way her joy radiated—it felt like being bathed in sunlight after years underground. She held up a jar of something, eyes wide, grin bright, babbling about how she’d never splurge on it herself.

My face felt suspiciously warm.

Her excitement… my darling’s excitement… it was intoxicating.

I could listen to her gush for hours.

And then she slowed. Her voice softened. Her shoulders lifted with a breath.

She turned.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

And that smile— Oh, I knew that smile.

A devious curl of her lips, playful glint in her eye. An “I want something” smile.

My pulse—an inconvenient, unnecessary relic—gave a startled jump.

She rose to her feet, sauntering toward me with that too-sweet, too-innocent expression. Her hands curled behind her like she was mimicking me, her hips swaying just enough to make me wonder if she noticed my wary attention.

“Darling…” I murmured, narrowing my eyes while maintaining my own smile. “Why do I suddenly feel as though I’m about to be swindled?”

“It’s not swindling,” she said in the whiniest, sweetest tone— Oh no. Not that tone. The one she used whenever she wanted me to buy her something. That tone had emptied my pockets more times than I cared to admit.

She pressed her palms together under her chin, blinking up at me with large, pleading eyes.

I swallowed.

Hard.

“What is it you desire?” I asked cautiously.

She rocked on her toes, practically glowing with mischief.

“Could we…” she drawled, dragging the words out to torture me, “have a spa day together?”

I blinked.

Once. Twice.

That’s all?

My brows rose, my spine relaxed, and a laugh—light, genuine—fell from my mouth before I could help myself. I had been bracing for something far more chaotic. A new pet. A trip. A dangerous request. A request involving Angel. Something with glitter. Something with Rosie, perhaps, which was usually even worse.

But a spa day?

With her?

I felt something warm bloom in my ribcage.

“Well now,” I said, letting a grin spread across my face. “I must admit, my dear, I feared you were about to request something far more outlandish.”

She pouted. “So… is that a yes?”

“A spa day?” I echoed, tilting my head as if weighing the idea. “Where I get to spend the afternoon pampering you? And you fussing over me?”

She nodded quickly.

“And you’ll be happy?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

Her beam was blinding. “Yes.”

How could I possibly resist?

I stepped closer, brushing a knuckle under her chin, lifting her face toward mine.

“Well then,” I murmured, letting affection soften every syllable, “how could I deny myself such a delightful experience?”

She squealed—actually squealed—and threw her arms around my neck, bouncing with excitement. I chuckled, hands settling at her waist, steadying her.

A spa day.

Clay masks. Oils. Brushes. Soft robes.

A silly thing for most men.

But for me?

If she touched me—even with cool creams and silly brushes—and smiled that way?

Why… It sounded perfect.

“Go on,” I said, kissing the top of her head. “Pick whatever you’d like us to try, sweetheart. I’m entirely yours.”

And oh, the way she lit up…

I was done for.

------

Time passed in a pleasant blur of her humming, the soft clink of jars against the floor, and my own growing, ridiculous anticipation. Which is how I found myself kneeling before her now—quite comfortably, I might add—while she sat cross-legged on the rug, identical fluffy pink robe wrapped around her.

Identical.

The moment she’d stepped out wearing hers and handed me mine, expecting… hesitation, perhaps? Awkwardness?

I had slipped it on instantly.

Matching with her felt scandalously enjoyable.

She glowed. I glowed. We were a pair of absurdly soft, pastel-clad fools, and I adored every second.

Before me she’d lined up three mask options like a ceremony: charcoal, clay, and a peel-off one decorated with tiny hearts.

I leaned in, studying them as if they were artifacts of immense power.

Charcoal—refreshing. Clay—classic, soothing. Hearts—utterly whimsical.

My problem wasn’t choosing one I liked. My problem was wanting to choose all of them.

She watched me with that fond little smirk she used whenever she caught me being secretly dramatic.

“Well,” I murmured, tapping my chin thoughtfully, “they each have such delightful qualities… oh, what a conundrum.”

Her laugh was soft, warm. “Baby, just pick one.”

“Only one?” I sighed, long-suffering. “Cruel.”

She nudged my knee. “Alastor.”

“Alright, alright…” I huffed, then pointed decisively. “The clay. It looks deliciously old-fashioned. A classic never fails.”

“Clay it is,” she chirped, pleased.

She slid the other two aside, then lifted something else—two soft headbands. One with cat ears. One with a big fluffy bow.

My ears perked. “Ah.”

Her smile faltered just a bit—uncertainty flickering across her face.

“These are… really girly,” she mumbled, fingertips brushing the bow. “You don’t have to wear one. I’ll find a black one or something if you want. It’s okay.”

I blinked.

Then frowned.

Deeply.

“Now why,” I said indignantly, “would I want a plain one?”

She looked up, startled. “You… like these?”

“Of course I do.” I gestured at the options. “They’re charming! Whimsical! And you picked them for me. Why would I be offended by something adorable?”

“But—”

I cut her off by plucking up the bow headband, holding it with great ceremony.

“I choose this one.”

“The bow?” she squeaked, flustered and pink.

I slipped into a softer tone. “I want to feel pretty.”

Her laugh burst out before she could smother it. Sweet, bright, delighted. The kind of sound I’d willingly kneel for forever.

“Come here,” she said, scooting forward, headband in hand. “Let me put it on.”

I lifted my chin obediently. Her fingers brushed my hair back, slipping the soft band over my head, adjusting the bow so it sat perfectly centered.

When she let her hands fall away, I caught sight of my reflection in a polished panel of one of my radio monitors.

Fluffy robe. Ridiculous bow. Her sitting in front of me, matching and beautiful.

I beamed.

Absolutely beamed.

“We haven’t even started yet,” she giggled, “and you’re already this happy?”

“How could I not be?” I said, turning back to her with every ounce of sincerity in my chest. “I’m spending the afternoon being pampered by the loveliest creature in Hell. And we match.”

She pressed her face into her sleeve to hide her smile.

I reached for her wrist gently. “Alright, sweetheart… turn me into art.”

And I meant it. Every single word.

“Lie down,” she said softly, patting the rug beside her.

And I did—immediately, eagerly, without a shred of hesitation. I stretched out on my back, folding my hands neatly over my stomach, bow perched proudly atop my head as if it were a crown. She shifted beside me, settling on her knees next to my head, her robe brushing the floor in a pink cloud.

I turned my face toward her… and smiled.

A big, unrestrained, unabashed grin. The kind that made my cheeks ache in the best way.

She leaned down and pressed a kiss to the tip of my nose.

My tail—traitorous, enthusiastic thing—wagged against the floor before I could stop it.

She giggled. “You’re too cute.”

“Only because my company is exquisite,” I murmured.

She rolled her eyes playfully and grabbed the clay bottle. I could feel my own excitement rising like a child about to be handed candy. The little tap tap of the bottle against her palm had my ears flicking, my chest buzzing happily.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“Quite,” I said, perhaps a bit too quickly.

She flipped open the bottle, dipped the brush in, and lifted it toward my face with all the solemnity of an artist approaching a canvas.

The moment the cool clay touched my cheek?

I jerked.

A startled bark of laughter tore out of me. Not elegant. Not poised. A bright, genuine laugh.

“Oh!” I gasped, grinning even wider. “Heavens, that is cold!”

She burst into laughter, steadying my cheek with her free hand. “Stay still, baby!”

“I’m trying!” I protested through my chuckles, though my tail thumped happily again. “But you’re freezing me alive!”

She dipped the brush again and smoothed the clay over my temple, then my forehead, then the bridge of my nose. Every stroke was gentle, deliberate, intimate. Her touch made me melt far more than the mask ever could.

I relaxed beneath her hands, the initial shock of the temperature fading into something soothing. Her fingers occasionally brushed my skin as she worked, and every pass made my chest tighten with warmth.

There was no humiliation. No discomfort. No sense of “oh, this is silly.”

There was only her.

Her soft humming. Her tiny, concentrated furrow of her brows. The way she paused every so often to admire her work. The warmth of her knee brushing my temple when she shifted.

I would have laid here forever if she asked.

My voice came out low, tender. “You know… I cannot remember the last time I felt this pampered.”

She smiled without looking up. “Isn’t this nice?”

“Nice?” I echoed, amused. “My dear, this is divine.”

She snorted softly. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Only for you.”

She swept the brush across my cheekbone, and I sighed—content, completely relaxed, completely hers.

If bliss had a shape, it would be her hands cupping my face in a fluffy pink robe while clay dried on my skin.

And I adored it.

She finished with a final, delicate swipe of the brush along my jaw, then set the bottle aside.

“Okay,” she said softly, “you’re done.”

I didn’t even let the words settle.

I shot upright so fast my bow nearly slipped off.

“Mirror!” I demanded—cheerfully, not at all ashamed—holding out my hand like a surgeon requesting a scalpel.

She burst into laughter, reaching into the basket to hand me her little handheld mirror. “Alastor, it’s not makeup,” she teased. “You don’t have to inspect it every time you put something on your face.”

But I was already looking.

And by looking, I mean beaming.

My reflection stared back at me—clay-coated, ridiculous, adorned with a fluffy bow, wrapped in pink, eyes sparkling like a man who’d just found religion.

I adored it.

Completely.

“Oh my,” I murmured reverently, turning the mirror this way and that. “Darling, I look positively radiant.”

She snorted. “You look like a frosted cupcake.”

“A delightful one,” I countered, grinning so wide my cheeks began to ache. “It feels… odd, yes, but not unpleasant. Not weird.” I ran a clay-smeared finger lightly along my jawline. “It’s refreshing! Cooling! I quite enjoy this.”

She smiled at me in that soft, full-hearted way that made something inside my chest twist pleasantly.

I looked from the mirror to her, then back at the mirror, then at her again—unable to decide which sight pleased me more.

But then—

Excitement surged.

A spark. A thrill. A sudden need to reciprocate.

“Lay down,” I said abruptly, almost childishly eager.

She blinked. “Huh?”

I was already putting the mirror aside and patting the rug. “Lay down, sweetheart. It’s my turn. I want to do yours.”

Her laugh bubbled out—warm, delighted—and she stretched out on her back exactly where I’d been, adjusting her robe so it didn’t bunch.

I knelt beside her, tail flicking with anticipation, scanning the basket like a man choosing his next spell.

She picked up a package—a simple paper mask with little printed strawberries on the cheeks—and held it up to me. “Use this one.”

I took it gingerly between my fingers… and stared at it.

Paper.

With cutouts.

And a vaguely face-shaped outline.

I narrowed my eyes. “How does this contraption work?”

“It’s not a contraption,” she giggled. “You just… put it on my face. Line up the eye holes and mouth hole.”

I stared at it harder, as if sheer concentration would reveal the secret. Eyebrows furrowed. Tilted it left. Tilted it right.

She tapped one of the holes. “Eyes go here.”

Ah.

Something clicked.

“Ohhhh,” I said, enlightenment dawning dramatic and loud. “These are portals.”

“Not—” she stifled a laugh, covering her face with her hands, “they’re not portals, baby. They’re just holes.”

“Well,” I declared, peeling it open with newfound confidence, “either way, I’ve mastered it.”

I leaned over her, holding the mask delicately in both hands, then draped it carefully over her face.

It stuck instantly, molding to her skin.

And I…

I giggled.

Actually giggled.

“My dear,” I gasped, leaning back to look at her handiwork, “you look like a haunted pancake.”

She wheezed with laughter beneath the mask, the cutouts scrunching adorably as she tried to talk. “A—haunted—pancake?!”

I clapped a hand over my chest, dramatic. “A very precious haunted pancake.”

She playfully swatted my knee.

I smoothed the edges of the mask down with careful fingers, tracing along her cheeks, her forehead, the bridge of her nose with gentle precision.

“There,” I murmured, softening, letting the silliness fade into tenderness. “Perfect.”

She relaxed beneath my touch, her breathing even, trusting, safe.

And looking down at her—wearing that ridiculous strawberry mask, matching robes, giggling with clay on my face and a bow atop my head—I felt something so warm it nearly spilled over.

Bliss.

Absolute bliss.

“Now,” I whispered with a smile she couldn’t see but surely felt, “let me pamper you properly.”

-------

We migrated to the bed the moment she declared the floor was “out to kill her spine.” I didn’t let her repeat it.

Up she went—scooped, carried, deposited atop my neatly made sheets—and I followed, settling criss-cross before her with the eagerness of a man invited to a secret ritual.

Which, in a way, I was.

Her newest mission involved snatching the rollers from the basket and setting upon my hair with the zeal of an inventor building a machine. My curls did not require such assistance—never had—but I sat perfectly still, perfectly obedient, while she raked her fingers through my hair and tucked each roller in place.

If she’d asked to set my entire head ablaze for “the aesthetic,” I would’ve tilted my chin and held perfectly steady for her.

But rollers were gentler.

Pleasant, even.

Her tongue peeked out in focus, her brows pinched, her robe sleeves sliding down her arms as she worked. Every brush of her fingers across my scalp sent sparks dancing down my nerves.

By the time she finished, I looked… absurd.

Glorious.

“I love it,” I declared instantly.

She snorted. “You haven’t even seen it.”

“I don’t need to.”

That earned a blush.

And then came the real bliss.

She plopped onto her back, propping herself against a pillow, stretching her bare legs into my lap. Without a word, without prompting, I uncapped the scented lotion—something creamy and floral—and warmed a dollop between my palms.

Her toes curled as soon as I touched her.

I swallowed a smug grin.

Her skin glided under my hands as I kneaded gently at her calves, then her ankles, then the soft arch of her foot. I could feel her melting into the mattress, half-focused on the tiny bottles of nail polish she was lining up on the sheets.

Four colors—pale pink, rich wine, shimmering gold, and a soft blue.

She tapped her chin. “Hmm… which one do I test?”

I perked up instantly.

My moment.

“You can test them on my claws,” I offered brightly, already adjusting my posture so my hands were free to present to her like offerings. “All of them, if you wish!”

She laughed. “Nooo, sweetheart. I need to see how they look on actual nails.”

I pouted.

Visibly. Dramatically. Claws still offered like a begging dog.

“Please?” I tried.

“Nope.” She flicked one of my claws with a single finger. “You get your turn later.”

I deflated with a soft whine.

Then she said the magic words:

“Keep massaging me?”

My pout vanished so violently it might as well have been exorcised.

“Yes, darling,” I said immediately, hands already sliding back to her calves like they belonged there. “Of course.”

Her laugh was soft and victorious, and she settled back against the pillows, polishing her toes while I worked her muscles with slow, deliberate care.

She sighed—long, satisfied, indulgent. I nearly shivered at the sound.

There was something intoxicating about this domesticity. Her legs stretched over my lap. The scent of lotion lingering on my fingertips. Her contented little hums as she painted her toes one careful stroke at a time. The weight of her trust, her comfort, her ease with me.

Every moment felt like proof that she was mine—not by ownership, but by choice.

A choice she made every day.

And I would kneel, bend, soften, and smile for her every day in return.

“Alastor,” she said lazily, wiggling her toes as the polish dried, “you’re really good at that.”

My chest warmed.

“I aim to please.”

She lifted a hand and tapped my rollers with a mischievous grin. “Good. Because after this, I’m taking those out and brushing your hair.”

I beamed.

“If that is your desire, then I am yours to sculpt, sweetheart.”

She giggled, painting her next toe. And I kept massaging—devoted, hopelessly in love, and utterly, blissfully content.

-----

Thank you for reading!! Little bonus..

THANK YOU JING FOR THIS AMAZING ART OF THIS WORK!!!