The ceiling of the Phoenix estate had a crack in the plaster. I knew this because I'd looked at it four times since dawn. My ears, unfortunately sharp enough to hear a fly clear its throat three rooms over, picked up the powder puffs being slammed into skin.
Lady Phoenix was at her vanity. I didn't need to turn my head to know she was scowling at a mirror like it was a rival devil household.
Y/N: You're wasting your time. And your money.
She froze, mirror compact halfway to her face.
Phoenix: Excuse me?
Y/N: The spackle you're slathering on your face. Human cosmetics have advanced two centuries ahead of whatever bargain-bin alchemy your local devil chemists are brewing. You're essentially smearing chalk and lard over high-grade silk. It looks worse.
Phoenix: It is not chalk! It is imported orchid dust from the third circle! And it's not my fault skin requires an absurd amount of maintenance! You men have it so unbelievably easy. You roll out of bed, wash your face with plain water, if that, and walk out the door while women spend hours ensuring we don't look like decaying corpses!
I shifted slightly on the mattress, resting my head against my knuckles.
Y/N: I take mild offense to that premise. I carry about forty pounds of scar tissue, I clean blood out from under my fingernails with a knife daily, and I haven't slept more than three consecutive hours. We work for our upkeep.
Lady Phoenix sighed, her expression softening into that strangely affectionate look she reserved exclusively for me. She set the compact down.
Phoenix: Oh, darling, you are a special case. I'm speaking of normal men. Do you have any idea what my late husband was like? The one I killed?
Y/N: I assume he was a delight, given the execution.
Phoenix: He was a swine! He would pick his nose and wipe the results on literally whatever was closest, the silk sheets, the tapestries, the actual walls! He constantly burped at the dinner table. He'd pull the heavy blankets over my head and pass gas! He had this atrocious, gelatinous belly, he left the bathroom door wide open while utilizing the facilities—
Y/N: Hold on. Back up.
I sat up slowly, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. The cool air hit my bare chest.
Y/N: What's wrong with a belly?
She blinked, looking at me up and down.
Phoenix: What?
Y/N: You said he had a belly like it was a cardinal sin. I've got a gut, so do you.
Phoenix: Y/N, he had a pudgy, round, beer-sack belly. You have a sculpted core and a perfectly balanced muscle-to-fat ratio that's turning me on even in this instance. It's entirely different.
Y/N: Right. I'm not as well-preserved as your revisionist history is making me out to be. My face looks like a weathered boot. I've got gray hair, more serrated tissue than smooth skin, and I'm pretty sure my default resting face makes small children cry.
Phoenix: (walking over, placing a soft, warm hand on my jaw) You don't have wrinkles, Y/N. You have crow's feet. They make you look seasoned. Dangerous. Sexy, even, alongside the scars. Though... I will concede one thing.
Y/N: Go on. Break my heart.
Phoenix: The frowning. It's a bit much, especially in bed. Sometimes I have the urge to kiss you, mostly to dull the pain of your beastly thrusts, only to notice your frown and genuinely believe you're about to strangle me.
