Courtship in Mortal Skin
NSFW — adult themes and power dynamics.
Hazel was safe. That was the first miracle.
A babysitter—handpicked, warded, vetted by both bloodline and divine favor—had arrived fifteen minutes early and left with a tote bag of crafts, spell-repellent lip balm, and a surprisingly well-behaved preternatural child. The apartment was quiet now, no squeals or sparkles or sudden infestations of frogs.
Lilith stood in the doorway, momentarily stunned by the silence. She hadn’t been off-duty in… gods.
God.
A voice, warm and low and edged in mischief, broke the spell.
“You look like you’ve forgotten how to breathe.”
She turned.
Crawley leaned against the kitchen archway, all silk-shadow waistcoat and red glasses, shirt crisp, watch glinting like a secret. His cufflinks were tiny serpents.
Of course.
His tie—a dusky plum shade—was askew in that way that suggested danger had flirted with him in the mirror before he left. And, like every sin with a name, he wore it all too well.
Lilith exhaled. “You clean up.”
“I had to. Tonight’s not about feeding. It’s about courting.” He pushed off the wall, slow and purposeful, like gravity worked differently around him. “You remember courtship, don’t you?”
Her smirk twitched. “Vaguely. I think there were torches involved. Maybe a blood moon.”
“Also a chariot made of bone and fire. But this time…” He extended a hand, his eyes molten behind the lenses. “We try something mortal. Something human.”
She hesitated. Only for a second. Then placed her hand in his. He kissed her knuckles—of course he did while sneaking a wink in her eyes couldn’t pretend they didn’t see—and didn’t let go.
Chapter 1: Mortal Tricks
Crawley’s lips lingered on Lilith’s knuckles a beat too long. His teeth grazed her skin—not a bite, but a promise. When he straightened, his smirk mirrored the serpentine glint of his cufflinks. "Shall we, my dear? Reservations await at eight. Somewhere... aggressively human."
Lilith slipped her hand free, smoothing the obsidian silk of her dress—a creation conjured with a whisper earlier that hour. "Aggressively human? Do elaborate." She stalked past him into the kitchen, her movements predatory grace. The lingering scent of ozone and hot wax from Hazel’s farewell glitter-bomb ceremony still hung in the air.
Crawley followed, leaning against the granite countertop. He plucked a single, perfect blood-orange from a bowl. Long, pale fingers dug into its peel, releasing a sharp, tangy sweetness that somehow matched the sharp angles of his face. "Think sticky floors, lukewarm Chardonnay that tastes like fermented regret, and a playlist curated by someone who hates joy," he purred. "‘La Luna Rossa.’ Run by mortals, for mortals. Authentic mediocrity."
"You planned this specifically to annoy me," Lilith stated, though a reluctant amusement tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Why?"
"Because, Lilith Morningstar," he peeled a segment of the orange, holding it out to her like an offering, a drop of juice catching the light like a tiny ruby, "watching you navigate forced cheerfulness amidst the mundane is a joy rivaling damnation itself. Besides," his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, "we've done the bone chariots, the blood moons, the thousand-year quests for cursed pearls. Tonight? Tonight, we suffer small talk and garlic bread."
The orange segment was cool and sweetly tart on her tongue. She swallowed, the taste grounding her in the bizarre reality. "Suffer? You thrive on discomfort, Crawley. It's practically your ambrosia."
"Guilty." He popped his own segment into his mouth, licking a stray droplet from his thumb. The gesture was deliberately obscene. "But even the Prince of Lies enjoys a palate cleanser. Keeps one... versatile." He gestured towards the door with a flourish. "Shall we descend into the abyss of normalcy?"
La Luna Rossa was exactly as advertised: dimly lit in a depressing ochre glow, faux-brick walls, red-and-white checkered vinyl tablecloths, and the persistent thrum of a dated jukebox playing Sinatra slightly off-tempo. The air hung thick with the scent of garlic, cheap wine, and decades of frying oil. Lilith felt her immortal skin crawl.
"Charming," she deadpanned as a harried waitress with gravity-defying bangs led them to a corner booth. The vinyl groaned under their weight like a dying animal.
Crawley slid in opposite her, adjusting his plum tie. "Isn't it divine? Real people. Real despair. Observe." He nodded subtly towards a middle-aged couple silently cutting their chicken parmesan with surgical precision. "See the quiet, mutual loathing? The existential exhaustion? It’s poetry written in cholesterol."
Lilith watched them, a flicker of ancient understanding in her eyes. "They’re not loathing each other. That’s just Tuesday." She scanned the laminated menu incredulously. "They have something called 'Endless Alfredo'. Is that a challenge or a threat?"
"Both, darling. Always both." Crawley leaned forward, his red lenses catching the overhead light, turning them briefly opaque. "Now, the true test: can the Demon of Temptation and the Mother of Monsters manage a conversation that doesn't involve plagues, prophecies, or the optimal angle for flaying?"
The waitress returned, chewing gum with grim determination. "Know what y'want?"
"Two glasses of your most… interesting Chardonnay," Crawley announced with a dazzling, dangerous smile that made the woman blink rapidly. "And the Endless Alfredo. For two." He winked at Lilith. "Embrace the experience."
The wine arrived. It tasted, as predicted, like fermented regret mixed with wet cardboard. Lilith took a dutiful sip, her expression unreadable. Crawley swirled his glass appreciatively.
"See? Notes of despair and crushed dreams. Human ingenuity truly is boundless."
Lilith set her glass down with a soft clink. "Why the pantomime, Crawley? The meticulous tie, the mortal reservation? What are you tempting me towards tonight? Mediocrity?"
His smile didn't falter, but something ancient shifted behind the lenses, a dark amusement. "Merely reminding us both of the playground, Lilith. The constraints of this fragile little reality." He gestured vaguely around the room. "It’s all rather… binding, isn’t it? Rules about napkins, forks, acceptable volumes." He leaned closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "It makes the eventual… unbinding… so much sweeter. Like holding your breath before a dive."
The Endless Alfredo arrived, a vast, steaming, creamy expanse that looked vaguely geological. Lilith prodded it with a fork suspiciously.
"Besides," Crawley continued, twirling a heavy forkful of pasta, "even immortals need practice blending in. Especially," he added pointedly, "when matters of delicate negotiations with Heaven's newest bureaucrats might require a… human touch. Or when fetching a certain young hellion from a mortal pre-school requires looking like you haven't just stepped out of the Pit’s boardroom."
He watched her reaction closely. Hazel. He knew the invocation of her daughter was Lilith’s true vulnerability, the anchor in her eternal storm. Lilith’s gaze snapped up, sharp as obsidian shards. "Hazel is none of your concern in that regard, Crawley."
"Everything concerning you is my concern, Lilith. Especially the collateral." He took a bite of pasta, feigning nonchalance. "Consider this reconnaissance. Learning the battlefield."
They ate in tense silence for a few moments, the clatter of cutlery and the drone of Sinatra filling the void. Lilith navigated the glutinous Alfredo with the practiced disdain of a queen enduring peasant gruel. Crawley watched her, an unnerving stillness settling over him despite the casual posture. Then, just as Lilith raised another forkful midway, his hand shot out across the table. Not towards her, but towards the cheap, salt-stained pepper mill beside her water glass. His fingers brushed the cool ceramic.
A tiny, perfect black scorpion, unnaturally glossy, materialized beneath his touch, scurrying over the red checkered vinyl towards Lilith's plate.
She didn’t flinch. Her fork descended, not on the scorpion, but with pinpoint accuracy onto its barbed tail, pinning it inches from the fettuccine. It writhed silently.
"Really, Crawley?" Her voice was glacial, devoid of surprise. "A scorpion? At a family restaurant? That’s barely parlor tricks. Did you pick it up in the parking lot?"
He chuckled, low and warm, the sound vibrating against the tacky vinyl booth. "Just testing the ambiance, darling. Ensuring the local fauna hasn't lost its touch." He snapped his fingers. The scorpion vanished, leaving no trace but a faint, acrid scent that mingled incongruously with the garlic. "Impressive reflexes, though. For a mother."
Lilith’s golden eyes held his across the table. The forced normalcy of La Luna Rossa seemed to ripple and warp around them, a fragile illusion ready to tear. The quiet desperation of the other diners felt suddenly sharper, a stark counterpoint to the ancient power simmering in the corner booth. He hadn't just brought her here for cheap wine. He’d brought her to the edge of the mundane, a precipice overlooking the vast, waiting chaos underneath. And he wanted her to look down.
Endless Alfredo, she thought, pushing her plate away. Appropriate. The night felt like it might stretch on forever too, a delicate, dangerous game played on a stage made of papier-mâché. And she knew, with a predator's certainty, that Crawley was far from done testing the boundaries. Or her. The real show hadn't even started yet. It was simmering, just beneath the surface of the lukewarm wine and manufactured cheer. She could almost smell the brimstone beneath the garlic.
Continue the story
Next chapter →
Chapter 2: Sacred and Bleeding