“What do you mean — every month?!” Charlie retorted, gripping the box of tampons tightly.

“Honey..” You began, searching your head for excuses as Lucifer was behind you, holding your waist — almost as if he was hiding, “That’s the glory of being a woman!” You finally say, laughing nervously.

“I’m not using these!” Your daughter declares, throwing the box at Lucifer’s face. You looked at him and frowned, “I’m never using these!!” She yells, sitting on the couch.

The king of hell and yourself groan in annoyance, knowing you have to deep clean it afterwards.