Just the sweet girl nextdoor.

If he were the father of a boy:

With a son, the pressure from the Hewitt family (especially from Hoyt) would be immediate. Thomas would see the boy as a chance to raise someone strong, but he would also face the fear of seeing him suffer the same abuse he endured.

Thomas would take the boy to the slaughterhouse and the basement from a very early age. He would teach the boy to handle the chainsaw (perhaps a smaller version), sharpen hooks, and carry heavy loads. For Thomas, seeing his son mimic his movements would be the ultimate proof of connection and a source of pride.

Hoyt would view the boy as the "future of the family." Hoyt would try to toughen the boy up through verbal abuse, humiliation, and tests of cruelty. Thomas would be torn: caught between letting Hoyt teach the boy to be tough and physically stepping in between Hoyt and the boy if the physical abuse crossed the line.

As the boy grew and became stronger, the dynamic would shift. Thomas might feel threatened if his son challenged his authority, but deep down, he would prefer his son to be the predator so he would never have to be the prey. If the boy inherited Thomas's deformity, the bond would be instant and fierce; Thomas would kill anyone (even his own family) who dared to laugh at the boy.

At some point during adolescence, Thomas would make a point of helping his son craft his own mask or choose his signature tools. It would be the most macabre "rite of passage" imaginable, sealing the boy's fate as the family's next executioner.

If he were the father of a girl:

A daughter would completely change Thomas's personality. Within the Hewitt family structure, the women (Luda May, Henrietta) take care of the home, the kitchen, and the preservation of the family unit, while the men do the dirty or heavy work. Thomas would treat a daughter as something precious and untouchable.

Faced with a little girl, Thomas’s brutality would be tempered. He would be extremely careful when touching her, keenly aware of his own size and monstrous strength.

He wouldn't take her to the human slaughterhouse right away; instead, he would try to keep her in the upper part of the house, far from the blood and screams, wanting to shield her from the horrors of the world—and from his own nature.

Thomas would act as a human shield for his daughter. If Hoyt tried to yell at her or use her in his mind games, Thomas would instantly transform. The blind loyalty he held for Hoyt would vanish, as the instinct to protect his daughter’s purity—the only beautiful thing he had ever created—would outweigh his fear of his uncle.

If Thomas’s daughter looked at his scars and deformities and, instead of crying, reached out to touch him, Thomas would be completely disarmed. He could spend hours sitting on the floor of her room in absolute silence, simply watching her play. He would agree to play "beauty salon" or "tea party" if she asked, displaying a gentleness and affection otherwise unseen in him.

While Thomas was already brutal toward strangers, his violence against intruders would intensify as a father. Any man who stepped onto the property and so much as glanced at her would be brutally butchered, with no chance of survival. She would grow up seeing her father as a terrifying monster to others, yet a gentle, caring giant to her.

The first day was a bewildering blur of gold and pink, a whirlwind of paperwork, unfamiliar faces, and the heavy, lingering scent of his father’s cologne that still clung to the Commander’s office. You were there, a steady, silent presence at Abel’s side, your own Exorcist helmet tucked under your arm as you watched him try to fill a throne he never wanted.

From the moment Sera had declared him the new Commander, a title that felt both too large and too sharp for his soft shoulders, you had glued yourself to his side. It wasn't just out of duty as an Exorcist, but out of a ferocious, all-consuming love that burned in your chest. You’d seen the way Lute’s single eye had narrowed into a shard of pure venom, the way her lips had twisted into a permanent sneer whenever Abel so much as fumbled with a stack of scrolls. Adam’s death had left a power vacuum, and Lute was furious that it hadn't been her to fill it, but the one person who stood in her way was the one person who had never wanted it in the first place.

Lute’s eyes had burned with a fury so intense you were surprised the marble floors didn’t crack beneath her feet. As the celestial court dispersed, she had stalked past your little group, her shoulder deliberately knocking into Abel’s.

“Watch it, Commander,” she’d spat the title like a curse. “Don’t trip over your own halo.”

Before Abel could even stutter a response, you were stepping forward, your voice a deceptively sweet chime that held a razor’s edge. “I’d worry more about your own balance, Lute. It must be difficult, walking around with that much bitterness weighing you down. I’d hate for you to take a spill.” You looped your arm through Abel’s, pulling him gently away from her toxic aura. “Come on, darling. We have actual responsibilities to attend to.”

Abel had looked at you then, his pupil-less amber eyes wide with a mixture of anxiety and sheer, unadulterated gratitude. You just squeezed his arm and shot him a wink.

And so, you became his shadow, his shield, his most vocal advocate. When Lute would "forget" to forward a crucial missive, your voice would cut through the celestial air, sweet as poisoned honey. "Oh, Lute, darling, having trouble with your memory? Perhaps all that time scowling has addled your brain. Don't worry, I've already briefed the Commander." You always emphasized his title, watching with satisfaction as a muscle in her jaw twitched.

The second day was worse. The initial shock had worn off, replaced by the crushing weight of reality. Piles of scrolls detailing extermination schedules, inventory lists for holy spears and “pointy things,” and missives from various Seraphim about “security concerns” littered the massive obsidian desk that had once been Adam’s. Abel sat behind it, looking small and swamped, his wavy blonde hair perpetually messy from him running his hands through it.

Lute was a constant, venomous shadow. She’d 'stop by' without an appointment, criticizing his every tentative decision.

“That’s not how Adam did it,” she’d snipe, looking over his shoulder at a troop rotation chart he’d been working on for hours.

“Well, I’m not Adam,” Abel had mumbled, shoulders hunching.

“We’ve noticed,” she’d retorted, her voice dripping with contempt.

This time, you didn’t bother with subtlety. You stepped between them, your posture ramrod straight, your gaze cold enough to freeze hellfire. “Lute,” you said, your tone flat and final. “The Commander is busy. If you have official business, file a request. If you’re just here to mourn your unrequited crush, I hear the empty training grounds are excellent for wailing. Now, get out.”

The sheer audacity made her biological and steel hand close into a tight fist. For a moment, you thought she might actually draw her blade. But you stood your ground, your love for Abel forming an impenetrable shield around him. With a final, hateful glare, she spun on her heel and left, the door slamming shut behind her.

When she tried to undermine him in a strategy meeting, suggesting his father would have "just attacked, no questions asked," you didn't raise your voice. You simply leaned forward, a serene smile on your face that didn't reach your eyes. "And look where that got him," you'd purred, the words hanging in the air until the silence became uncomfortable. "The Commander is considering all options. It's called strategy. Something you might want to familiarize yourself with."

The rest of the day was a cycle of Sera asking for his “valuable input” on matters of cosmic security—which made him break out in a cold sweat—and Abel trying, and failing, to decipher his father’s chaotic filing system. By the time evening cast long, golden shadows through the grand windows, he was a taut wire of stress. His halo was tilted at a truly precarious angle, his hands were shaking slightly, and his answers had devolved into a series of nervous “Yepperoni”s and “Okay-dokay”s.

You watched it all, your heart aching for him. This wasn’t your bright, silly, sweet boyfriend. This was a scared young man buckling under a legacy of violence he wanted no part of.

Enough was enough.

You found him in his new office—Adam’s old office—a space that still reeked of ego and stale beer. Abel was drowning in it. He was perched on the edge of a ridiculously ornate chair, surrounded by a sea of parchment, his wavy blonde hair disheveled and his dented halo tilted at a dangerous angle. He was muttering to himself, "...and the logistical report on cloud density for troop movement, and the... the... what even is this one?"

You closed the door with a soft, definitive click. He didn't look up, too lost in his spiraling thoughts. "Just a moment, I just need to... to cross-reference this with the..."

"Abel," you said, your voice soft but firm.

He jumped, looking up at you with wide, startled eyes. "Oh! Hey, baby- i didn't know it was you! I'm just... swamped. So much stuff. Sera wants a preliminary report by morning and I can't even find the... the thing for the..."

You walked towards him, your movements slow and deliberate. You didn't say a word, simply reaching out and gently prying the crumpled papers from his white-knuckled grip. You set them down on the desk, one by one, smoothing the edges with a tenderness he so desperately needed.

"Wha... what are you doing?" he asked, his voice laced with a frayed anxiety.

You just smiled, a slow, knowing smile. Then, you let your voice drop into that register you reserved only for him—a silky, syrupy sweet purr that promised nothing short of sweet oblivion. "My poor, sweet Commander. You've been working so, so hard."

His breath hitched. A faint blush crept up his neck. "Baby- not- not now I have to- I have to do a lot of.. of stuff and- and- and.."

He was rambling, his brain struggling to catch up because that voice always short-circuited his higher functions. He was cornered, not by an enemy, but by your overwhelming presence, and he was backing up until the backs of his knees hit the plush couch his father had used for… well, you didn’t want to think about what Adam used it for.

You placed a finger gently on his lips, shushing him softly. "I know how stressed you've been, my love. I've been watching you. And I'm going to make it all better. I promise."

Abel’s resolve, what little he had left, shattered. A deep flush spread from his cheeks down his neck, disappearing under the high collar of his uniform. He gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing, and just nodded, his eyes wide and utterly trusting. In all honesty, he was wound so tight he felt he might snap. He needed an outlet, a release, and what better one than the gorgeous, loving body of the angel who adored him more than anything in all of creation?

His brain was screaming about reports and Sera and Lute, but his heart, his soul, his entire being was leaning into the safety and warmth you offered. He needed this. He needed an outlet, a release, a way to just feel instead of think.

You smiled, a genuine, loving smile, and gently pushed him down to sit on the couch. He went without a shred of resistance, his body pliant. You then settled yourself in his lap, straddling him, your weight a comforting anchor. You cooed at him, running your fingers through his soft, wavy hair, messing it up further in that way you knew he loved.

“There’s my good boy,” you murmured, leaning in to capture his lips in a sweet, unhurried kiss.

He melted into it with a soft, desperate sound, his hands coming up to rest hesitantly on your hips. As you kissed him, your fingers made quick work of the golden buttons of his ornate military jacket, pushing the heavy fabric off his shoulders. He was left in the simple, soft linen of his underclothes, and he already looked more vulnerable, more like your Abel.

He was already melting, his hands resting weakly on your hips, his eyes wide and dazed. He was your baby, through and through: eager to please, desperate for direction, and so, so responsive to your every touch.

You sat back, rocking your hips against the growing hardness you could feel beneath you, and you were rewarded with a sharp, pathetic whine as the friction brushed against his growing hardness.

“P-Please…” he pouted up at you, his big, liquid gold eyes swimming with unshed tears of frustration and building pleasure. “Don’t… don’t tease me, pleaseee.”

You chuckled, a low, affectionate sound, and kissed him again, deeper this time, swallowing his weak pleas. "Shhh, my love. I'm taking care of you." You then lifted your hips slightly, making to move off him.

He immediately whined in complaint, his grip tightening. "No, wait—"

You tutted softly. "Darling, there's no way I can get these pants off if I'm sitting on them, now is it?"

“Shhh, baby, there’s no way I can get these off of you if I’m sitting on them, now is there?” you reasoned, your voice still that hypnotic purr.

That shut him up real quick. His mouth closed with a soft click, and he blushed even harder, looking adorably chastised. You took the opportunity to swiftly unbutton his trousers and tug them down just enough to free his cock. It was just like him—a bit thick, a bit soft, perfect.

You wrapped your hand around him, giving him a few slow, firm strokes.

“S-So good… your hand feels… ah…” he babbled, his head falling back against the couch.

“Just you wait, my love,” you cooed.

Then, you positioned yourself and sank down onto him in one slow, deliberate motion. The stretch was divine, as always, making you gasp softly. But Abel’s reaction was far better. A broken-off, shuddering moan was torn from his throat as he immediately clung to you, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His arms wrapped around you like a vice, his whole body trembling. His eyes, when you glanced down, were crossed and hazy, shimmering pools of liquid gold.

“ba-ah-byyy…” he whimpered, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary thrust upwards.

You began to move, setting a slow, deep, rolling rhythm. As you rode him, you rained down syrupy sweet praises, your lips close to his ear.

“You’re doing so well, Abel. My perfect, handsome Commander.” “Everyone is so hard on you, but you’re so, so good.” “You’re so beautiful, my sweet boy.”

You reached one hand up to stroke the nape of his neck, scratching lightly through his hair. You knew that spot made him completely boneless, and you felt him go limp against you with a shuddering sigh, his whines becoming higher pitched.

But you weren’t done. You wanted to wipe every last thought of Lute, Sera, and exterminations from his beautiful, stressed mind.

Your other hand trailed down his back, over the soft linen, and further, until your fingers gently brushed the base of his magnificent golden wings.

The effect was instantaneous and electric.

His wings ruffled and puffed up with a soft shhhk sound, every feather standing on end. A sharp, choked whine escaped him, and he jerked inside you, his grip becoming almost painfully tight.

“B-Baby, please! You- you know what that d-does to me!” he babbled, his brain-to-mouth filter completely obliterated by the overwhelming sensation. The dual assault of your body milking his cock and your fingers stroking the hyper-sensitive primary feathers of his wing was too much.

“I know, baby,” you purred, deliberately clenching around him as your fingers traced the arch of his wing. “I know. Just let go. Come for me.”

That was his undoing. With a final, high-pitched whine that sounded like the yip of a puppy, he fell apart. His eyes rolled back, his head lolled against the couch, and he spilled into you with a series of weak, helpless jerks of his hips. He was whining and whimpering your name, his hands weakly pawing at your back as he rode out the orgasm he had been so desperate for.

Feeling him pulse and throb inside you, so utterly lost in his release, triggered your own. You clenched around him, moaning out his name as pleasure washed over you in warm, crashing waves.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were your combined, ragged breaths. Abel was completely spent, a boneless, whimpering mess beneath you, nuzzling pathetically into your chest. You gently stilled your hand on his wing, instead opting to stroke his hair and back soothingly.

“There,” you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his sweaty forehead. “All better now?”

All he could manage was a weak, breathless little nod, his eyes fluttering closed.