Habibi: Imp Tweek x Pastor Craig
“Hi, demon.” Tweek screamed, looked up, and rubbed his heavy eyes. “Nngh, are you ever gonna quit calling me that?” “Till God rises.” “Good luck.”
synopsis: When Craig’s ex tricks him into summoning a demon, Craig realizes that maybe it’s not so bad when a pretty boy presents himself, but…were those horns?
status: ongoing
CW: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, extreme horror, gore, panic attacks, anxiety, major character deaths, drug usage, religious trauma
series playlist
AO3 LINK
WATTPAD LINK
(I DID NOT DRAW THE COVER ART FOR HABIBI. The original artist is CheckPointSSS on Twitter. It is only edited. I did draw the second piece, which is Tweek's design midway through the fanfiction)
ADDITIONAL QUOTES:
Craig didn’t understand who or even what he was looking at. It was a boy who looked around Craig’s age, surely enough, but some aspects dismissed that probability. He wore scarlet horns through tufts of scruffy, honey-accented hair and had bat-like wings tucked behind an olive button-down. Yet he wore the face of a teenage boy—a pretty boy, Craig noted—and his face was slender and milk-white. Craig felt if he touched the boy, he’d be deprived of all pores and scarring. But that wasn’t a bad thing. Or, it didn’t feel like a bad thing; Craig didn’t mind it. Two gentle carmine eyes drowned Craig in an accumulation of sea foam, and he almost allowed a smile. The boy was inhumanly beautiful. It was almost hard to believe.
Blood drooled down Craig’s hand, but he hardly noticed. It wasn’t what thickened the pump of the gruely blood through his heart, nor was the chilling church breath sprinkling through the room. It was the crosses. Oh, God. The crosses. All of them. Every single one of them was turned upside down.
“They said no.” Craig had just finished supper downstairs and held a bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese on a smaller plate. “What?” Tweek strained. His hands quivered around a tiny saffron star, and it crashed to the floor between his feet. “Why?” Craig shrugged and sat beside Tweek on the bed, acutely avoiding a small pile of stars while he handed him his dinner. The sun drenched the room through a cider-like filter, almost the color of Tweek’s hair, and the palette pleasantly brightened the faint ginger flush on his nose and cheeks. He was a painted portrait in that room, a Tim Burton’s tragic twist on Helios—Craig realized that as he bent to retrieve Tweek’s fallen star. He asked, “What are you doing?” “Oh! I just noticed a bunch of scrap paper in the closet and made some origami stars. I saw you had some on your ceiling and thought you’d like them.”
