So here I am. Thirty-two years old. Unemployed. About to become the father of the Antichrist's half-sibling. Lilith is currently in the other room, eating pickles dipped in Nutella, crying because she saw a commercial for a puppy. Her halo—which she swears she stole from a cherub in a bar fight—keeps flickering on and off.
"Bring me the baby shower registry by Friday," he growled. "And it better not have any of that pastel, woodland-creature nonsense. I want black lace, obsidian rattles, and a onesie that says 'Daddy's Little Apollyon.'" I Knocked Up Satan S Daughter A Demonic Romantic
"You knocked up my daughter," he said. Not a question. A death sentence. So here I am
Love is blind. Demonic romance is just blind, deaf, and armed with a flamethrower. About to become the father of the Antichrist's half-sibling
Two drinks later, the dark wasn't so scary. Four drinks later, her tail—yes, tail —was wrapped around my calf under the table. I figured it was a costume. A very committed goth thing.
Her name was Lilith—or "Lil" for short, which should have been my first red flag. She had eyes like twin voids and a smile that promised eternal damnation in the best possible way. When she walked into the dive bar, the jukebox switched from Johnny Cash to Bauhaus on its own. The neon sign above the pool table flickered and spelled out DIE for a solid three seconds before going back to BEER .
"I—sir—Mr. Morningstar—it was consensual?"