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The house is, for lack of better words, fucking overflowing with eggs.
Standing in the kitchen with his hands on his hips, Skeppy grimaces. Eggs tucked into makeshift nests inside barrels, eggs kept meticulously warm atop the furnace, eggs stuffed into bags and pockets throughout the house… even an egg in Skeppy’s favorite left boot. Every room in the house, save the bathroom, has at least one egg in it— the kitchen, the bedroom, the sitting room. Somehow, the number of eggs has grown rampant, and he’s left absolutely baffled by it.
Well , he thinks as a pair of arms snake around his torso and a cold nose pokes the side of his neck, maybe not totally baffled . “Hi, Bad. Good morning.”
“‘Geppy,” the demon murmurs. He squeezes him tighter. “Come back to sleeeeep. I’m cold.”
Rolling his eyes good-naturedly, Skeppy ignores him. “Bad, how many eggs are there, again?”
“Hm?” Bad huffs, swaying. “Twenty-seven. Why?”
“Bad.”
“What?” Bad gingerly turns Skeppy around, looking with big, confused, pretty eyes at his deadpan expression. “What’s wrong? Did I mess up the number?”
“No, you didn’t mess up the number. Bad. Do you realize how FUCKING INSANE of a number TWENTY-SEVEN is?” He’s getting entirely too worked up over this, but the words are ones he’s beginning to regret not saying back at seven eggs, instead of twenty -seven.
“ Lan guage,” Bad gasps with his ears flattened back, but clearly otherwise unfazed. “Twenty-seven is a normal number, Skeppy. Besides, even if they have embryos, not all of them will hatch…”
“And what if they do all hatch, and we end up with twenty-seven kids ?!”
Bad throws up his hands. “Then we’ll have twenty-seven kids, I don’t understand what you’re saying!”
“You’re so—!” Skeppy growls, turning away.
“What?! I don’t get it!”
“Never mind, Bad!” Skeppy busies himself with scraping some old food gunk off the table with a diamond claw, before he hears a soft ohhhh of realization from behind him, and braces himself. Oh fuck, Bad’s about to say something really stupid. Like, embarrassingly stupid.
“I get it, it’s the number of kids that you don’t like.” Skeppy relaxes. “You don’t want twenty-seven kids. I get it! We don’t need to have twenty-seven!” Bad chirps sweetly, and Skeppy, feeling much better, almost opens his big, dumb mouth to thank Bad for understanding, before he feels a clawed hand on his shoulder, and Bad spins him around to face him again. There’s a glint in his eye, a seductive tilt to his hips, and Skeppy only has time to think goddamn it before Bad leans in to say sweetly: “ We could always have twenty-eight instead.”
Closing his eyes hard, Skeppy sucks in a deep, deep breath.
“Alright, y’know what? Fine. Bed. Now.”
Bad’s tail barely begins wagging before Skeppy hoists the demon over his shoulder, squealing in surprise, and carries him with no small amount of haste to the bedroom.
Twenty-eight it is, then.