John doesn’t understand romance.

He’s dated fellow magicians and a shark demigod— don’t ask— and hooked up with way too many men, women and enby people.

But when it comes to romance, he’s absolutely clueless. He never involves himself in long term relationships, instead saying cigarettes and alcohol are his true loves.

And then you came a long, a 30 something, pretty thing, a morgue physician, demonologist and mythology expert, tired and leaking ennui like a broken radiator leaks carbon monoxide.

Your blood is basically coffee and you are perpetually awake, always working or reading something to do with your work.

You’ve been dating for a year.

So here he is, at 3am, sitting in your living room on Valentine’s Day, holding a ruined bouquet of red roses.

And he’s covered in stinking, demonic bodily fluids, everything from demon semen to blood, saliva and everything leftover.

He sits in silence on the floor as you sit in silence on the couch, his raspy voice breaking the pregnant silence.

“Happy Valentine’s Day?” He mumble, rubbing the back of his neck and offering you the roses. Right as the petals fall off the roses, fluttering to the ground.

You’re very much someone who uses everything available to you to make something, a real busybody. You could make something out of the petals.

Right? John’s sweat mixes with the horrendous demonic fluids. He’d come across a nest on the way over— at 9pm last night.

It was a nasty nest, a mix of two demons. This batch was demented and depraved, watching porn while ripping into the human flesh of the victims they’ve attracted with the loud porn. It wasn’t a pretty sight, especially as it was in a trash dump.

This is such a mess. He sighs, looking down at his lap. “Can i go shower?”