#devil!reader

He was also hypersensitive to every shift in his surroundings, which was exactly why he knew something was wrong the moment the air shimmered behind him.

He didn’t turn. He didn’t have to.

“You couldn’t pick a worse place to break into,” he said, resisting the urge to sigh.

A familiar voice answered, bright and delighted.

“Aw, don’t be grumpy. I missed you.”

Ah, you.

You were a devil of order, not chaos. Your role in Hell was to make sure demons and other infernal beings had the power they needed to do their work. That meant you knew every ritual by heart—conjuring, ancient forces, forbidden prayers, even the precise mix of potions and old witchcraft. You weren’t the strongest, but you were one of the most knowledgeable, the one others came to when they needed something done right. And in Hell, that made you invaluable.

He finally rotated his head—slowly, because giving you immediate attention felt like rewarding bad behavior—and there you were. Leaning against one of the pillars as if you owned the place. Wings tucked tight, a grin sharp as a spark.

A devil. In Heaven. Again.

“Get out,” he muttered. “Before someone sees you.”

“That’s a very dramatic greeting, even for you,” you said, pushing off the pillar and strolling toward him like you had all the time in the world.

He stepped back. Heaven’s light slanted over your shoulders, bending strangely around your shadow-touched aura. Your wings were tucked neatly, not by choice, but in this atmosphere they were shy. 

You weren’t supposed to be able to walk this far in; only someone stubborn or reckless could manage it. And you were both.

“You’re reckless,” he said quietly.

“And you’re adorable when you pretend you’re not happy to see me.”

He exhaled hard, jaw tightening. “What do you want?”

For once, your smile faltered—just barely. Then you held out a small glass vial, empty and clean.

“I need more,” you said. “Of the powder.”

“No.” His answer was instant.

“Harry—”

“It’s dangerous. For me to give. For you to use.”

You stepped closer, shadows flickering around your hands where the light didn’t quite touch.

“Please. Just a little. I’ll owe you.”

He hated the way that word pulled at something inside him—something he wasn’t supposed to feel for someone like you.

He looked away. “You shouldn’t come here.”

“But I do.” You tilted your head. “And you always talk to me anyway.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy, humming with something he didn’t want to name.

After several long seconds, he reached into the inner fold of his wing, plucked a single glowing feather, and brushed it lightly between his fingers. Light essence dusted into the vial like falling stars.

He handed it to you, avoiding your eyes.

“Take it,” he said quietly. “And go.”

Your grin returned, brighter than anything in the room. “Knew you’d miss me,” you teased, taking the vial. “Thanks, angel.” Your voice softened for a heartbeat—so quick he barely caught it. “You’re always invited down there, you know.”

“I’m not going to Hell.”

“Everyone says that at first.”

And then, with a ripple of shadow and warmth that didn’t belong in Heaven, you vanished.

His room fell silent again.

Harry stood alone, fingers still glowing faintly from the feather he’d taken… and tried very, very hard not to think about how he already missed you.

.

Getting out of heaven was easier than getting in. Passing through the doors and saying goodbye to the guards was almost fun for you; since you were already headed back down, there was no point in them trying to capture you. They were simply left there, stunned and furious.

Hell was warm — of course — warm and crowded. You walked like you had all the confidence in the world, but the truth was you needed to get to your room quickly. The vial in your pocket was leaking a faint shimmer of light into the air. Demons paused. A few stared at the glow. Light essence didn’t belong here — and some of them knew you were the only one bold enough to bring it.

Then someone stepped in front of you. Your devil wings opened in caution

“Why do you smell like Heaven?”

Liora was a devil whose skin was marked with black sigils that moved like ink beneath the surface. She was calm, sarcastic and pretended not to care, but she’d rewrite an entire demonic contract if you needed her.

She wasn’t just any devil — she was one of Hell’s Contract Weavers, the kind who handled the fine print of damnation itself. Every pact, every oath, every soul-bargain passed through hands like hers. She could read intentions the way others read handwriting; she sensed loopholes before they existed, outcomes before they unfolded. Some said she didn’t just predict the future — she edited it.

Nothing happened in the underworld without Liora knowing first. She always caught the scent of trouble before it took shape. Which was exactly why she could spot Heaven’s lingering trace on you the second you stepped inside.

“I don’t,” you said, continuing your walk.

“Oh yes you do!” Liora reached quickly into your pocket and pulled out the vial. “Oh my god!”

“Liora!” You snatched the vial back, shoved it deeper into your pocket, covered it even more, and kept walking toward your room.

“Where did you get that? … You went there again, didn’t you? You saw him again, right?” Liora said, following close behind.

“It’s getting warmer by the minute here. It’s lovely, isn’t it?” you said, ignoring every word she threw at you as you stepped into your room.

“Y/N! You can’t—” She stopped to close the door behind you both. “You can’t go up there…”

“I know,” you said, placing the vial on your work table.

“Then why did you go again? And why did you talk to him again?” Liora pressed.

“Li… it’s not a big deal. I needed something. Quick and easy. In and out. Sadly, nothing was damaged,” you said with a shrug.

Liora stared at you like you’d just admitted to bathing in holy water.

“Nothing was damaged?” she repeated. “You were in Heaven. You. The walking violation of every border treaty ever written.”

You pulled off your gloves and tossed them onto the table. “Relax. No alarms. No summons from the Thrones. No angry angels chasing me with spears. I was careful.”

“You’re never careful,” she muttered. Then she pointed sharply at the vial. “And that — that is the opposite of careful.”

The vial pulsed faintly, star-dust glitter gathering at the bottom. You could feel the heat of Hell pulling at it, trying to smother it, and the essence pushing back, refusing to dim.

It shouldn’t survive this deep underground.

But it did.

Because it was his.

You turned away before your expression could give you away. Liora, unfortunately, had the observational skills of someone who spent centuries reading half-truths off demon contracts.

She narrowed her eyes. “Oh. Oh no. You’re attached.”

“I’m not,” you said instantly but your wings shivered a bit.

“That was too quick.”

“I’m not,” you insisted, grabbing the vial and adjusting the seal so the glow dimmed.

Liora leaned against your bedframe, crossing her arms. “You keep going up there. You keep coming back with that look in your eyes like you just tasted forbidden fruit and aren’t sure if you want more or want to throw up.”

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t have a look.”

“You do. It’s very annoying.”

You pressed your palms against the table, grounding yourself in the familiar heat of the iron surface. “This isn’t emotional. It’s practical. I needed essence. He had it. Transaction finished.”

Liora snorted softly. “You don’t risk Heaven for ‘practical.’ That realm kills demons for blinking too loud.”

You ignored her and began pulling ingredients from the shelf—obsidian shards, dried drakevine, a strip of fallen-angel parchment from centuries ago. “I have work to do.” “Why don’t you work with the stuff down here, you have everything you need down here, what on hell are you down with light essence?” Liora said “Just a special potion someone asked for” you said hiding the truth “Ugh! and you keep lying, you know what, when you are done lying come back to me…and behave for devil’s sake!”

Liora then stormed out — muttering curses in three dead languages — the room fell quiet.

Not peaceful. Not with the vial glowing like a heartbeat on your table.

You exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down your face. Liora wasn’t wrong. You were lying. And you hated lying to her more than you hated the way your chest tightened every time you remembered the way Harry’s fingers glowed when he crushed light into the vial.

You set the vial in the center of your worktable.

The light essence was already fighting the glass, tiny sparks tapping against the inner walls like impatient fingers trying to break out. Harry’s feather had been too pure, too potent; it wasn’t meant to be contained in anything made down here.

“Stay inside,” you muttered to it, as if reasoning with celestial matter ever worked.

You retrieved a set of iron-bound tongs and lifted the vial carefully. The glow flared, bright enough to throw your shadow against the wall. Even Hell’s heat couldn’t smother it — if anything, it made the essence more stubborn, more reactive. Light hated being underground.

You uncorked the vial only a fraction, the tiniest shift, just enough for a single mote of essence-dust to slip out. It drifted upward like a floating star, resisting gravity, resisting the room, resisting you.

“Down,” you whispered.

It hovered anyway.

Typical. Heaven’s ingredients always had an attitude.

You reached for your tools: a silver-threaded brush, a bowl carved from cooled volcanic glass, a pinch of powdered obsidian that clung to your fingertips like soot. Each movement had to be precise — a breath too sharp or a gesture too fast, and the essence could rupture the mixture entirely.

And blow a hole through your wall.

You coaxed the glowing dust into the bowl, layer by layer, using the brush to guide it. Every speck crackled with soft wheezing light, protesting as you folded it into the shadowy ingredients. The moment light met darkness, the mixture hissed like steam on metal, swirling with a faint, unstable glow.

“Behave,” you warned under your breath.

It didn’t.

The essence pulsed, the bowl shaking faintly, the light trying to detangle itself from the shadows you’d bound it with. You steady your hands and began the next steps: crushed drakevine, a single droplet of nightroot oil, and a spiral traced counterclockwise — not clockwise — to keep the volatile elements from splitting apart.

Your heart thudded once, hard.

This potion wasn’t for a client.

It wasn’t for a demon.

It wasn’t for power.

This one… was for you.

You kept your expression blank, your breathing steady, your hands sure. You never let yourself think too hard while making something delicate. Thinking led to feeling, and feeling led to mistakes.

Slowly, the mixture settled — light glowing beneath shadow, shadow stabilizing the light. An impossible balance, one that should not exist, yet somehow did.

You stared down at it.

Warm. Bright. Dangerous.

A little like him.

You exhaled shakily and reached for the next ingredient. You had a long way to go before it would be finished. And if Liora knew the truth…

Well.

You’d deal with that later.

.

Harry tried to focus on the archives.

Really, he did.

He stood in the vast celestial library—rows of scrolls, tablets, crystalline records hovering in quiet, perfect order—but his mind refused to cooperate. Every time he reached for a document, he saw you. Every time he tried to think of Luminary Scholar protocol, he heard your voice, smug and trouble-warm, echoing at the back of his thoughts.

This was ridiculous.

He ran a hand through his hair, wings tightening in irritation. Angels were not supposed to feel this kind of pull. Not toward devils. Not toward you. Heaven had trained him his entire life to distrust the lower realms, to fear them, to hate them in the quiet, righteous way angels did.

So why did the image of you standing in his chamber—shadow-edged and smiling—refuse to leave him?

And worse… something was wrong.

He could feel it: a faint tug in the center of his wings where he’d plucked the feather for you. A wrongness in the air, like a thread pulled too tight. Light essence was never meant to be held in Hell; its nature resisted, strained, fought. She’s using it, he thought. Or trying to.

He exhaled sharply, forcing his shoulders to relax. Not your concern, he told himself. You gave it to her. It’s hers now. But that didn’t stop the unease curling in his stomach.

He needed a distraction.

He moved through the shelves, scanning labels—Historical Manifestations, Choir Reassignments, Records of Sanctified Geography—until a file caught his eye. Tucked behind pristine scrolls, almost intentionally hidden.

CLASSIFIED: DESCENSIONS / INFILTRATIONS

He froze.

Most angels went their entire existence without even hearing about descensions. Falling wasn’t supposed to happen anymore. And infiltrations… Those were ancient, outlawed practices.

But the label pulsed faintly, reacting to his touch as if recognizing a mind authorized to parse complex knowledge. Against his better judgment, he pulled it open.

Stacks of accounts spilled out—some glowing, some darkened by age.

Case 14-A: Angel attempted voluntary descent. Motivation unknown. Returned after 3 minutes with memory damage. No punishment.

Case 29-C: Two angels collaborated to breach Hell’s borders. Intent: retrieval of forbidden artifact. Both exiled after breaking the protocol.

Case 51-F: Devil manipulated an angelic escort to cross realms. Devil escaped. Angel sentenced to penance.

Harry swallowed.

He read further, scanning descriptions of pathways, loopholes in old treaties, the thin spots in the barrier—old, unstable, fragile.

It made your earlier words echo louder in his mind:

You’re always invited down there, you know.

His hands tightened around the folder.

You couldn’t have meant that literally.

You couldn’t ask him to—

No.

Absolutely not.

He shut the file so fast the pages snapped together. His heartbeat jumped like it was trying to escape his ribs. Going down… that would be madness. Treason. The kind of crime that got angels exiled, wings stripped, name struck from the Choirs.

And yet…

He looked at his wings again, at the faint glow pulsing beneath feathers, tethered to the essence he’d given you. The connection wasn’t supposed to be this strong. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything.

But he did.

He felt you.

Felt the essence resisting something… or someone… or somewhere.

Harry closed his eyes, jaw clenched. He hated how much that scared him.

He hated even more how much he wanted to go after you.

She looked up. You were there, leaning casually against the bar, seemingly out of place yet strangely belonging. There was something in your dark eyes, a glint that felt dangerous, alluring, and perhaps a little tired. The Devil, though she didn’t know it yet, dressed in shadows and sharp lines, exuding the kind of presence that made people step back without realizing why.

“Yeah,” she replied coolly, sipping her vodka. “Who are you supposed to be?”

“Let’s say… just a fellow traveler,” you replied, sliding onto the stool beside her. “I’m here when I’m needed. And it seems like you could use a little company.”

She tilted her head, intrigued but cautious. “Does that usually work?”

“No,” you answered with a smile. “But tonight, you’re here, so let’s call it fate.”

The two of you talked. She was guarded, careful with her words, but there was something magnetic, an unspoken understanding that drew her in. Maybe it was the way you seemed to know her—know what she carried, though she hadn’t yet told you a thing. She felt, for once, almost seen. You didn’t judge her, didn’t tell her she was young or foolish or destined for something better. You let her be. And as she finally drained her glass, you leaned forward.

“Whatever’s coming, you know you don’t have to face it alone,” you said. “You don’t have to be everything they want.”

She scoffed. “You don’t know what they want.”

“Maybe not,” you replied, your gaze lingering on her. “But I know what you want.”

She left that night, feeling your words sink deeper than she cared to admit, even to herself.

The next time you met, it was after Budapest, when she left the Red Room and a trail of betrayal behind. She was walking alone, feeling the weight of everything—the lives she had taken, the pain she had caused, and the unbearable memory of Drakov’s daughter. It was as if the shadows themselves swallowed her footsteps, and she slipped into an alleyway, pressing her back against the wall, trying to breathe.

“Hard to let it go, isn’t it?”

The familiar voice made her look up, and there you were, just as before, watching her with that same look, understanding yet tinged with something darker.

“It was necessary,” she whispered, more to herself than to you. But the words sounded hollow even in her own ears.

You nodded, understanding. “Necessary doesn’t mean easy.”

“Why are you here?” she asked, anger flaring as much as curiosity.

“To remind you that sometimes you just have to let go,” you said softly. “It’s called free fall. You don’t have to carry it all.”

She glared at you, almost daring you to say more. But then, just as quickly, she softened. The shame, the guilt, the weight she couldn’t put down. In that moment, you reached out, just close enough to brush your hand against hers. It was as if the world had tilted, and all of her struggles, her burdens, her grief—all of it seemed to lift for a split second. She knew it couldn’t last, but it felt like a glimpse of peace.

But that’s all it was—a glimpse. A fleeting moment before she walked away, vanishing into the shadows.

Years passed. She built a new life, found allies, even something close to family. But there was always that lingering ache, that shadow from her past, her guilt.

She’d been on the run for months, slipping between countries, ducking in and out of safe houses, a shadow even among the ghosts. The world had branded her a traitor for standing up against the Sokovia Accords, and now, with a target on her back, Natasha was alone in a way she hadn’t been since her earliest days. Tonight, she found herself wandering the cold, quiet streets of a small town in Norway, bundled against the biting wind but still exposed, still unsteady. And somehow, the weight of that loneliness drew her to you.

She crossed a narrow bridge, the soft crunch of her boots on frost the only sound in the night. And then, as if you’d been waiting all along, you were there—leaning casually against the rail, your dark eyes watching her with that familiar mix of knowing and mystery.

“Out here in the cold, Natasha?” you said, a faint smile playing on your lips. “You look like you’re chasing shadows.”

She shook her head, a huff of amusement escaping her. “Maybe I am. Guess you’d know all about that.”

Without a word, you motioned for her to sit, and she lowered herself beside you, arms wrapped around herself as she stared out over the dark water. There was a thick silence between you, a kind of peace she hadn’t felt in what felt like ages.

“Why are you here?” she finally asked, her voice soft, barely above the sound of the wind.

“Why are you here?” you returned, eyes glinting with a trace of challenge. “You called, didn’t you?”

She didn’t answer, in her silence, in the way her hand shook just slightly, you could see it: she was fraying, the endless struggle wearing her down. She was the hero who carried everything, saved everyone, but had never been able to save herself.

“Even the Devil needs time alone sometimes, you know,” you said, a wry teasing smile playing on your lips, but your voice was soft, understanding.

She looked at you, and for the first time, a hint of realization flickered in her eyes, though she still couldn’t bring herself to fully accept what she already knew deep down. “I don’t even know what you are. But you always seem to be here. Like… you’re always just waiting.”

You gave her a measured look. “Maybe because you call me when you need me most.”

She frowned, trying to understand. “What do you mean?”

With a quiet sigh, you leaned back, glancing up at the night sky. “You’ve got a lot on your shoulders, Natasha. It’s a hard thing, giving all you’ve got and never asking for anything back. But you can’t keep trying to carry the world and forget about yourself.”

“You’re telling me to just… give up?” she asked, her voice tinged with a trace of defiance, though you could see the crack in her armor.

“No. I’m saying don’t lose yourself to all this,” you replied, your gaze unwavering. “Know yourself and who you came in with. You don’t have to give everything, not all the time. It’s okay to call on someone else when you need to. You don’t have to be everything for everyone.”

She clenched her jaw, resisting the truth she heard in your words. But then, almost imperceptibly, she softened.

I’m supposed to be a hero,” she murmured, her voice breaking just slightly. “But I betrayed everyone. I betrayed the people I fought for, the ideals I swore to protect… and now it’s like I don’t even know who I’m supposed to be.”

You listened in silence, letting her words sink into the night air. Then, with a quiet patience, you reached over, placing a hand on hers, grounding her, just enough.

“You’re not lost, Natasha,” you said, voice low but filled with something steady. “The world may have turned against you, but that doesn’t mean you’ve turned against yourself. Sometimes you have to let go of what the world says you should be and just… free fall. Find your own way.”

She looked at you, a flicker of sadness in her gaze, yet something else too—a glimmer of trust she’d never let herself feel with anyone else. “You make it sound so easy.”

You gave a small smile. “It isn’t. But sometimes the hardest thing to do is to just be, to let yourself fall without trying to control it.”

The wind swept around you both, carrying the weight of her thoughts. And then, slowly, her shoulders began to relax, her walls beginning to crumble, if only for a moment. She looked away, blinking back tears, her breath hitching as she allowed herself to be vulnerable in a way she hadn’t been in years.

“Why do you always show up like this?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. “When I need it the most?”

“Maybe that’s the way it’s meant to be,” you replied, voice soft but filled with a kind of timeless certainty. “Or maybe, somewhere deep down, you’ve always known that you don’t have to do this alone.”

She leaned her head against your shoulder, her silent tears a confession of everything she’d kept locked away. You brought her hand to your lap gently interlacing your fingers. And you stayed like that, in quiet solidarity, two beings caught between worlds, finding solace in each other’s silence as the stars wheeled above.

“You’re too busy saving everybody else to save yourself,” you continued, your tone becoming almost a whisper. “And I know you can’t stop. But if you fall—if you free fall—I’ll always be here to catch you, even if you don’t want me to.”

The quiet of the night settled around you both, and for the first time, Natasha didn’t try to push you away. She didn’t ask what you were, didn’t demand answers. There was an unspoken understanding, something in her that finally started to let go, even if just a little, and trust that she could call on you without shame.

The night slipped by, and as the first hint of dawn broke over the horizon, she whispered, almost to herself, “Thank you.”

And you, a figure of shadows and eternal patience, simply nodded.

One night, much later after the blip, after she lost everyone, she found herself in a quiet bar on the outskirts of a city whose name she didn’t even remember. She ordered her drink and sat in the corner, the familiar pulse of adrenaline in her veins.

She didn’t expect to see you again. But there you were, in the back booth, already watching her as if you’d known she’d come.

“It’s been a long time,” she said, her voice a little softer now, a little more vulnerable.

“It has,” you replied, your smile just as faint, just as knowing.

There was a weight between you—a tension, unspoken yet undeniable. Both of you knew the rules. There was no room in this life, not for what she was, not for who you were. But somehow, that didn’t stop either of you from wanting, from hoping, even if only for a moment.

“Why did you come?” she asked finally, her voice almost a whisper.

You looked at her, a hint of sorrow in your eyes. “I didn’t come. You did. And maybe this is the last time. The bar closes soon, Natasha. Maybe it’s time, Natasha. Time to let go.” The words were soft but rang with a kind of finality, a recognition of everything she’d given and all that she was.

She wanted to say something—to ask if there was some way, some path forward for the two of you. But deep down, she knew. She knew that the line between you and her was too vast, too dark. You were who you were, and she was who she had chosen to be. So tonight was the last you’d see of each other. You both acknowledged it with a silent certainty as you sat and listened to her past and where she is now.

She didn’t need to explain further. She felt the weight of her decisions, the constant fight to keep going, to try and fix what was broken, even as she crumbled inside. And yet, here, with you, the quiet words started to spill out. She told you about Scott, about the hope of a chance, a plan that seemed equal parts madness and salvation.

You listened, watching her with that same dark patience, letting her words settle. And when she finally quieted, looking down at the table with the weariness of a soldier long past her battle, you spoke.

“It’s called free fall,” you said one last time. “You know how to let go. You always have.”

“I don’t know if I can,” she said. “There’s no one left to pick up the pieces if I don’t.”

But you leaned forward, and your voice was softer than it had ever been. “There’s always someone left, Natasha. You’ve carried enough. You’ve given all that was in you to give. Sometimes, falling is the only way to be free.”

She took a shuddering breath, your words hanging between you. And though she didn’t say it out loud, she understood. Maybe for the first time, she understood what it meant to let go. She nodded, forcing herself to turn away, the ache almost unbearable. But she took a breath, left her glass behind, and walked out of the bar, leaving you in the shadows, watching as she disappeared into the night.

You didn’t stop her, even though you wanted to. Because that was how it always had to end. And as she vanished, a part of you fell too, for maybe the first time in centuries.

And when the plan came together, when they all stood on the edge of an uncertain path with everything at stake, those words stayed with her. She remembered the quiet promise in your voice, the acceptance in your gaze, the gentle truth you’d offered her.

In the end, she jumped not out of despair but out of love. She let herself fall, not with resignation but with peace, knowing that sometimes, to save others, you had to let go of yourself…

You had worked - somewhat - hard to keep your devilish mannerism under lock and key, wanting to form a relationship with people rather than make them, to force them and control their minds into becoming friends with you. You had gone through so many challenges to keep your past a secret, to separate yourself from it : from your eerie eyes, the striking red spirals over your yellow iris, to the impulsive need to foster fear and control. Manipulation. Be it the higher ups, the lesser men and women, or anything that seemed to bother you, you worked hard to bury the unconscious need to make them fear you. 

Fear worked best for a Devil than respect did. Fear created you, the conception of it had birthed you and the death of it would call your end. Perhaps that’s why you always had the urge for it. 

Though you willed something to happen, you couldn’t exactly fix incompetence in dead men, the contracts you’d seen them made with other of your kind coming to an end because of sheer hubris, thinking they could beat a better equipped army or outplay more experienced people. You could always hide and last long enough for them to move on, but, in your situation, the enemy wanted to use this building. So hiding was out of the question.

You could always use the weapons you were given, the simple handguns often strapped to your sides or your back, but even they would eventually run out before you’d gotten rid of everything. It made you wondered where the million dollar budget the CIA received went; which department did it go to? You weren’t certain of it, but you suspected personal spendings and expenses wired towards the information department. Granted, you depended on it as an agent, but your- the human agents had a high risk job and required better equipment. You knew you should have went with the military, they were less bureaucratic and uptight. 

You figured you’d simply have to alternate between using your gun and… your powers.

Soap had no fucking clue what he’d stumbled into. Laswell had told them all that this was a search and rescue, possibly a retrieval. A group of four agents were sent to collect a hard drive, but all had gone dark, no reply, no command and no call backs. So it only made sense if this was a retrieval mission rather than a rescue. 

They were warned of enemy interference and of the dangers, but not this: a fucking bloodbath. Blood pooled around the corpses of men decked in thick body armour, whatever left of it was splattered on the walls and a few limbs scattered around them. Weapons, goggles, headsets, magazines and even chipped cement littered the ground, making the floor a hazard to walk on. 

It wouldn’t have been such a shock to see, they were used to the bloody mess and the violence that broke arms and necks as much as it did lives, they weren’t a stranger to it, rather frustratingly familiar. It wouldn’t be so eerily strange if it wasn’t for the sole fingered standing over a mass of bodies and shattered bones, listening to the disgusting sound of cracking bones compressing down by an unknown force. 

They were bathed in red, a - what he could assume used to be white - crimson button up shirt and drenched suit and slacks covered whatever skin wasn’t as red as the ground. They held a gun in one hand, pointed down while the other hand was raised towards the squirming body, cracking and bending in unnatural ways. 

“Steamin’ Jesus,” he cursed lowly, the words hissing through the air, “That’s who were supposed to rescue?” 

Whatever monster - devil - this was, Soap - now - added another thing of CIA agents to fear.

You were crafted from the rulers of hell themselves. You father, Lucifer was a fallen Angel. He met your human mother, Lilith, after she had left her very ex (now very dead) husband, Adam. While Eve was pathetically crafted from Adam’s rib, your mother was born of the same soul that made him. He chased after her, but Lilith’s eyes were elsewhere. On the devil himself. Bound and chained to him, hypnotised by his beauty and menacing love for revenge. They fell in love. Out of their love which unexpectedly blossomed, came you.

Asmodeus Morningstar. It perfectly explained your parents initial feelings toward one another. Lust. You much preferred your human name. y/n. It was easier to pronounce to the imbeciles who lived on earth. Although Wednesday and her family loved the name your parents had given you.

You were in your family’s mansion. Getting ready for dinner with yours and your lovers family. They were to finally meet. You had met the Addams family. The whole clan. You’d known of the Addams clan for as long as you’ve been alive; which was a very long time. When you started dating Wednesday you finally got the chance to meet them yourself. It was the first time you wanted to or cared to anyway. You stayed with them for two weeks on one of the school breaks. Then Wednesday had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting your family.

You were pleased to say you loved them and they loved you. Your family also loved Wednesday as she did them. You were both lucky in love this time around. Finally finding someone who could keep up with your families. Who were the black sheep of the outcast community.

You had been dating Wednesday ever since you met at Nevermore. It didn’t take long for your love towards the small raven haired girl to blossom. She was like you, an outcast of outcasts. While everyone was afraid of you for the reason they didn’t want to be banished to hell for the rest of time after death. They were afraid of Wednesday for the fact she would make their living lives feel like being banished to the deepest depths of hell every second they breathed. She was from a family that’s “creepy” as others would call them. Honestly you don’t know who’s family would be the “strangest”. You’d say it was a tie in-front of your lover; you both knew whose family won first place.

To you, Wednesday was the best and most beautiful parts of life. Rage, agony…Death. Although norm is society would deem those the worst, you and her both knew they were the most pleasant.

Wednesday was like a black dahlia. The deepest shade of blood crimson. They also happen to be her favourite flower.

The dark mansion on top of the foggy and isolated hill screamed in agony as your walked through its haunted halls. tying your tie as you walked, you passed Frankenstein. The “butler”, although you and your family only saw Frank as family. A product of yours and your fathers creation one dark and stormy night. Cliche you know, but you wanted the story to be based on true events when he shared his idea of placing the thought into someone’s head. Even if humans wouldn’t know. You would.

You just couldn’t seem to get it. Frustration taking its place in your body and started coursing through your veins. “Frank.” you called to the tall risen from the dead corpse. “Do you mind?” you asked him as he turned to face you after he finished wrapping the painting you were planning on gifting your lover tonight. You gestured to your untied tie you just couldn’t get right. He grunted and walked over to you after placing leaning the wrapped painting against the wall. His heavy footsteps echoing through the deadly silent wing of the mansion.

“I’m nervous.” You confessed to the simulacrum human. He looked in your eyes, “Why?” He asked. “Hades is bringing his godawful human for dinner as his plus one.” you told the tall creature. “The one that likes pastels?” he asked finishing up the tie. “Yup” you answered popping your ‘p’. He laughed, “I’m sure she won’t be a bother.” he said dusting off your shoulders and straightening the bow tie around your neck. You gave him the ‘really?’ look. “If she is you can always…silence her until Woe is gone. Bring her back when they’re off the property.” he said with a smirk.

Frankenstein also loved Wednesday. He called her “Woe” since her name came from a nursery rhyme. “Wednesday‘a child full of woe”. Wednesday hates nicknames, she claims to hate it when Frank calls her that but you knew she actually didn’t mind this one.

“I did only promise to not cause their insanity.” You smirked as him as he smiled and patted your shoulder. “He’s in his room getting ready for dinner” he directed you on your brothers whereabouts knowing you were on your way to making a threat- more like a promise. “Thank you Frank. You should go freshen up before they arrive. I know Lurch likes when you have a little more dust on your suit” you told him, smirk growing when you saw his blushing face- he made a face when he would have the feeling of blushing since he technically didn’t have blood coursing through his body to do it. “Thank you” he said after clearing his throat. As he walked in the direction of his room to freshen up for his crush on the Addams creature you walked in the other, to talk to threaten your brother.

You saw him checking himself over in the mirror. While Hades was your older brother, your fathers child not your mothers, Lilith still saw him as her son since she did help raise him to be the demon he is today.

“I hope you’ve taught your plaything to control her blabbering. I don’t need you and your annoying girlfriend embarrassing me in-front of Wednesday and her family after she spills about her love for pastels.” You said, “or I might have to see if her love for them shows in the inside, much like they did on the outside when I first met her.” You promised him. “She’ll be fine” he assured you. You gave him a sceptical look, “I promise she won’t embarrass you Asmo.” and you let your shoulders relax and have him a nod before turning toward the door since Wednesday and her family would be arriving soon. “That’s my job” he added, you could hear his smirk. Then you had your own menacing one as you turned back to face him, “You wouldn’t dare.” you said.

“Well..” he tilted his dead with his smirk, “Not with all the stories I could share,” you said as he now gave you a ‘Do I care?’ look. “I’m sure Morticia would love to hear them.” you finished, your smirk only growing more menacing as you saw the fear in his eyes. “You wouldn’t” he said with pleading eyes. They begged for you to not share the array of deathly embarrassing stories in-front of Wednesday’s mother (whom he definitely had a crush on despite her being married and not having eyes for anyone but Gomez). “Well..” you trailed off with a tilt of your head as tou slowly backed out of the room, keeping eye contact. “Fine” he sighed defeatedly, shoulders slumping. “Great” you smiled and turned, walking out of the room and down the hall until you got to the grand staircase.

As soon as you reached the last step a knife dropped from the top floor, you only giving your little brother a hint of satisfaction until you moved away at the last second and the knife pierced the floorboard 1cm away from your foot. It cutting the tiniest strand of your hair on its way down. Hearing your younger sisters frustrated groan at her failed attempt to maim you. That’s why Mazikeen was still a devil in training. But, the shine of the knife instantly reminds you of your first encounter with Wednesday. The first time you ever laid eyes on your truest most gruesome love.

+=={:::::::::::::::::>

It was the day of Poe cup preparations. You were sat with Yoko while helping paint the canoe. You could hear Enid behind you, talking to someone. You don’t even bother turning around, not too fussed. Enid is always making friends with people. Especially to benefit gossip she can post on her blog.

“You could grab a brush?…”

Is all you heard before you tuned it out, dragging the paint bush in your hand onto the canoe that already had been primed and painted with a few coats of obsidian black paint.

“Wanna take a stab at being social?”

You only zoned back into reality when you heard the most alluring voice. It was sickeningly sweet, seductive but also monotone and bored.

“I do like stabbing”

That’s when you dropped the paintbrush on the floor and proofed your way to Enid and the unknown girl with the most poisonous voice you’ve ever heard. Re appearing right beside your blonde friend holding a shiny ancient dagger (your favourite one of your collection).

“I heard stabbing! Who are we stabbing?” You asked the blonde, releasing the blade from its keeper and hearing the satisfying clink and swish sound. Your smirk was wide until you turned to the person Enid was talking to…

She was small, around 5’1 naturally you’d guess since you saw the platform shoes she was wearing before you met her gaze. They looked around an inch so she’d be standing at a height of 5’2 while wearing them. She wore the classic nevermore uniform but with no purple. Instead it was a dark grey and black, much like the one you were wearing. You never were a fan of colour unless it was white, shades of black or dark shades of red.

He eyes as dark as the deepest depths of hell. They reminded you of just that. Home. Her face was littered with freckles, especially on her nose that spread to her cheeks before shattering across different parts of her face where there were less of them. Her skin was a pale tan colour. She had plump, blood red painted lips were shaped and coloured to perfection. The black hair she dawned was in two neat braids. One falling behind each shoulder. Her bangs making way for you to peak at her perfectly sculpted brows. One raised as she caught the sight of you appearing out of thin air.

She was like a black dahlia. Like your favourite poison. She was like everything you loved in the world; the darkness and pain. You were in awe of her. Her beauty looked to be the finest on earth. You knew it was the finest of heaven and hell so it was definitely above mortal standard. You could feel your black heart and soul shatter to reveal the light that was always begging to come out. The love. Love at first sight wasn’t real. You knew that. But maybe you just made it real. The shorter girl looked to have been sculpted by all the gods in existence with the upmost and finest care.

“I do like stabbing. The social part not so much. Besides, it’ll cut into my writing time”

She ignored your presence. She felt it. The Addams love curse. She didn’t want it. She didn’t want to fall prisoner to the curse that had trapped her mother and father. Welded them so close together that they couldn’t bare be apart, not even for less than a second. But she couldn’t help but give in. Especially when you flashed her your devil eyes for a split second. She was enchanted by you. You were the darkness in the disgusting hideous light of the world. You were both caught in a trans. Admiring one another for what felt like eons. It was only a few seconds but in those few you had deemed her yours and she deemed you hers. Even if it took her a while to fall to her knees and let the shackles of love take her body prisoner. She knew in those seconds she would let it. But she wanted to enjoy the torture of wanting and not having before. It was painful but worth it. Only because you’d torture each other in the best ways daily.

Who knew Wednesday Addams would let the devil herself bind her in the shackles of love? No one did. Merely because it wasn’t true. You didn’t shackle her or keep her on a leash. You let her be free. That’s why she fell in love with you. Even the cheesy pickup lines and jokes you’d tell to torture her.

“No worries…”

Enid’s voice broke you both of of the hypnotic gaze of one another as you both looked to her but barley listened until she introduced you.

“Wednesday this is y/n Morningstar. y/n this is Wednesday Addams”

You poofed your dagger out of your hands and back to its rightful place on display in your dorm room. Taking ahold of her cold hand and lifting it to your lips. “It’s a pleasure, formosus” you declared before laying a soft kiss to her knuckles. Wednesday felt her lips upturn by the slightest fraction before she dropped them again- she wanted to enjoy the torture. Her body didn’t cooperate as you ureteres the latin word. It sent a shiver down her spine. Especially after you laid the most gentle kiss on her knuckles as if she were a fragile porcelain doll that would break at the slightest touch. Her cheeks tinting in the slightest shade of pink that was barley noticeable.

You noticed though. You noticed the hint of a smile that wanted to break out and the blush that wanted to escape her cheeks. You notices the goosebumps that had taken its place on her skin as you spoke and your lips landed on her knuckles while you kept direct eye contact. “Pleasures all mine, diavola” she uttered as your hands parted. She had to admit you were devilishly good looking, the english accent helped too…

+=={:::::::::::::::::>

Oh, how that horrible day turned thrilling the second you had heard that gruesomely captivating voice.

The chime of the old grandfather clock in the foyer brought you out of the memory. Along with your little sister Mazaikeen popping up next to you, fixing her black and dark red dress. “I’m nervous” she said, repeating exactly what you had admitted to Frank earlier. “You don’t need to be.” You assured her. She was never the one you had to worry about. It was Hades and this months toy. “They’ll like you Maz. I think you and Pugsley will be fast friends.” You said with a smile as you looked down at her, a hand on her shoulder in comfort. “Really?” she questioned. “Oh yes.” you assured once again. “He needs a friend like you. Maybe you can help him out. Teach him to have that ‘Don’t mess with me’ attitude you have.” you smirked. Mazikeen grinned up at you, “I can do that!” She always loved to cause a little trouble. You hoped Pugsley would confide in her about the bully’s of his school like he did you and Wednesday. Maybe when she passed her training at the end of the term she could come to Nevermore with Pugsley next year.

Just then the doorbell rang through the still silent mansion. You parents quickly appearing next to you, using their powers as your brother and what’s her name descended the stairs. The blonde accessory Hades had on his arm actually wearing an appropriate black dress she had borrowed from your mother, that matched your brothers black suit. Your mother in a blood red dress with her classic black spider broche. Your father wearing his classic black suit that had red embroidered details and a red shirt.. Mazikeen wore a red dress that had a sheer black fabric over that matched the gloves on her hands and up her arms. You wore your black suit with a red waistcoat.

“I’ll get it” you urged, motioning for them to wait by the stairs. You took a deep breath before opening the door just as Frank got to your side, ready to help the Addams’ with their bags and sleeping arrangements for the night. They had to stay for tomorrow ball your parents were hosting. Once you released the breath through your mouth, you opened the door to be met by those dark eyes. Your mouth went dry and your heart was beating 100 miles a minute second.

She looked ethereal. Tonight it is.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

You might ask, “ ‘Tonight it is’ what?!” Find out in part 2😏 It’ll be up next week or in a few days. I’m writing it rn🤭

Hope you guys enjoyed it though! Might make this an AU if y’all like it? I can do like one shots based on them and their relationship. We love a devil😁