#abel x reader

If you can, thanks 🩷

The Happy Hotel was, against all odds, having a peaceful afternoon. (Y/N), was the kind of sinner Hell rarely produced: relentlessly kind, cheerfully optimistic, and prone to baking far too many treats. You were currently humming, carefully frosting a batch of red velvet cupcakes in the hotel kitchen.

Behind the bar in the next room, Husk was polishing a glass, his eyes fixed on the kitchen entrance. His usual gruff demeanor was reserved for anyone but you. Ever since you arrived at the hotel, quietly patching up stray demons and bringing him the good whiskey, he'd adopted a fiercely protective, if unspoken, parental role.

The bell to the lobby chimed. Husk's ears twitched as he saw who entered: Abel, the tall, pale demon with the perpetually nervous expression and a habit of dropping things. Abel was nice enough, unfailingly polite, even but he was also always staring at (Y/N).

Abel clutched a small, wrapped bouquet of wilted, black-and-purple Hell flowers and nervously approached the bar.

“H-h-hello, Mr. Husk,” Abel stammered, avoiding eye contact.

Husk set the glass down with a heavy clink. “What do you want, kid?”

“I… I was wondering if… if (Y/N) was around?” Abel managed, wringing his hands.

Husk narrowed his yellow eyes. “She’s busy. Baking. Why? Planning on interrupting her work with whatever you’re fiddling with?” He gestured dismissively toward the pathetic bouquet.

Abel flinched. “Oh, no! Absolutely not! I just… I have something I wanted to ask her. It’s… it’s a very important question, actually.”

Husk leaned forward, resting his chin on his paw. “Look, kid. I know you got a thing for (Y/N). Everyone with working eyeballs does. She’s nice. But she doesn’t need someone stressing her out. She’s got enough of that just living here. What exactly is this ‘important question’?”

Abel swallowed hard, already sweating. “I… I wanted to know if she would… if she would perhaps… join me for a meal. Outside. At a restaurant. A date, sir.”

Husk’s frown deepened. “A date? You plan on taking my kid out? What are your intentions?”

“H-honorable ones, sir! Completely! I promise! I just think she’s… she’s the nicest person in all of Hell, and she smells like cinnamon and happiness, and I just… I want to spend more time with her,” Abel finished in a rush, his face flushed.

Husk studied him for a long moment, noticing the genuine panic and sincerity. He sighed, rubbing his temples.

“Fine. Get in there, but you’ve got approximately thirty seconds, and don’t you dare make her drop a single cupcake. If she says no, you leave without a fuss. Understand?”

“Yes, sir! Completely!” Abel squeaked, hurrying toward the kitchen, the black bouquet drooping even further.

In the kitchen, (Y/N) was meticulously piping a swirl of cream cheese onto the final cupcake.

“Oh! Hi, Abel!” you greeted cheerfully, turning when you heard his awkward shuffling. “I didn’t hear you come in. How are you doing today? Stressful demon bothering you again?”

Abel nearly dropped the flowers. Your immediate concern for him wiped his planned speech right out of his head.

“N-no! I mean, yes! I mean, I’m fine! You are! You’re… you’re very nice!” he stammered, holding the bouquet out like a peace offering.

You took the sad, dark flowers gently. “Oh, thank you, Abel! That’s so sweet. I love the color combination.”

He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to refocus. The question. Ask the question.

“Listen, (Y/N),” he started, his voice barely a whisper. “I… you’re always so kind. Like, unbelievably kind. Even when someone is rude, you just… you help them. You’re the best person I’ve ever met down here, and you deserve… you deserve something nice.”

You smiled, genuinely touched by the earnestness in his eyes. “That’s such a lovely thing to say, Abel.”

He felt the heavy weight of Husk’s stare from the bar entrance. Husk was visibly sipping a whiskey and looking directly at him over the rim. Thirty seconds.

"So! I was wondering if… if you maybe… perhaps… needed help carrying those cupcakes anywhere later this week?" he blurted out, completely losing the thread.

You blinked. "Carrying the cupcakes? Oh, sure, I’d love an extra set of hands! I was planning on taking a batch over to Angel Dust and Cherri tomorrow afternoon. That would be great, Abel!"

Abel’s face fell. He had failed. He hadn't asked the date question.

“A-actually, I was thinking… later than that,” he stammered, trying to rally. “I mean… later than carrying the cupcakes. Like… out. Like we’d leave the hotel. To eat. Together. On a date.”

He finally managed to say the words, but they came out in a rush, the stress overwhelming. He braced himself for rejection. You laughed, a genuine, warm sound that made the tension drain from his shoulders instantly.

“Oh! You mean an actual date? Why didn’t you just say so?” you teased gently. You set the flowers down and stepped closer. “Yes, Abel. I’d love to go on a date with you. You’re sweet, you’re polite, and you’re actually one of the calmer demons in this whole place. That sounds wonderful.”

Abel’s entire body seemed to deflate in shock and relief. His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. “Y-you… you do? Really?”

“Absolutely! Just tell me when and where,” you confirmed, giving his arm a gentle, encouraging squeeze.

Abel, feeling an unprecedented rush of success, finally smiled. “It’s a date! Tomorrow evening! I’ll arrange everything!”

He turned, practically floating out of the kitchen, forgetting entirely about the pressure of the moment. He walked right past Husk, a dazed, delighted expression on his face.

Husk simply watched him go, then slowly turned his gaze back to the kitchen, where you were still beaming.

“You’re really going out with that spaz?” Husk grumbled, though his tone lacked its usual bite.

“He’s not a spaz, Husk. He’s just nervous,” you replied, picking up a cupcake. You walked over to the bar and offered it to him. “And yes, I am. You approve, old man?”

Husk looked at the perfectly frosted cupcake, then at your expectant face, and finally took a large, careful bite.

“He seemed mostly harmless,” Husk admitted grudgingly after a chew. “But you tell me the time and location. I’m waiting outside the minute you leave, and I’m parked across the street until you’re back. If he so much as makes you doubt yourself for a second, I’m vaporizing him and his stupid little flowers. Got it?”

You leaned over the bar and gave his velvety cheek a quick, warm kiss. “Got it, Dad. But I think he’ll be fine.”

!!!NOT PROOFREAD!!!

-Sweetest man ever.

-He loves cuddles and hugs. He pulls you into a huge hug whenever either of you has had a bad day.

-When he has a crush, he is the most stereotypical guy ever, blushing and giggling whenever you're near.

-Househusband (only in spirit thought since he's the leader of the exorcists)

-Kinda related to the last point, he's decent at cooking. He can't make a 5-star meal or anything, but the food he makes is tasty.

-He'd get you gifts all the time. Nothing major, but if you off handly metion liking a specific kind of candy or something, you can expect to find a bag of it on your desk the next day.

-He likes to be around you. Not even necessarily doing anything, just hanging out in the same area.

Y/n might recognize that Abel's desire for control comes from a place of anxiety, fear of vulnerability, or simply being "on" all the time in his public life. The bedroom dynamic isn't just about pleasure; it's about a safe space for him to practice asserting a different kind of power one that is intimate and mutually agreed upon, rather than performance-driven.

In his professional life, Abel is often the one directing, controlling the narrative, and being the dominant artistic force. Y/n could gently push him to take that dominant role personally with them, where the stakes are low and the trust is absolute.

Y/n wouldn't start by demanding intense orders. It could begin with very small, almost hesitant requests from Abel, a simple command to hold still, a direction for the Reader to touch themselves, or a soft request that gains confidence over time.

The initial scene where y/n suggests it. Abel might laugh it off nervously, deflect, or outright refuse, saying something like, "That's not my style," or "I like seeing you take charge." Y/n would have to be very reassuring that this is safe play and entirely for his benefit.

The moment he finally gives a directive. It's likely whispered, his voice shaky, or perhaps delivered through tightly clenched teeth as he struggles against his own internal boundaries. Y/n's positive, immediate, and enthusiastic response is what reinforces the behavior.

The post-coital conversation. He might feel a mix of exhilaration and deep vulnerability, possibly even shame or awkwardness. Y/n needs to hold space for those complex emotions and remind him how much they enjoyed his newfound assertiveness.

Like the heaven embassy reopens after season 2 and the meets turn in dates.

The atmosphere in the newly re-established Heaven Embassy meeting room felt less like diplomacy and more like a barely contained skirmish. After the devastating events of the last extermination and the subsequent overhaul of the rules, the stakes for these formal meetings were astronomically high.

You, (Y/N) Morningstar, were present as the representative for the newly created "Harmonization Committee," Heaven's desperate attempt to show good faith. You were immediately recognizable as Lucifer's daughter, with your own powerful aura, though your personality tended toward the earnest and strategic, a contrast to your sister Charlie's boundless, cheerful idealism.

On the Hell side, the delegation was a predictable mix of cynical Overlords, with Abel present as a token of "goodwill" and "neutrality." He was there because he was famously docile and, crucially, had no existing beef with Heaven.

He was also, you quickly realized, agonizingly nervous. During the first few meetings, Abel barely spoke unless directly addressed. His pale skin was often flushed pink, and his hands, resting on the polished table, would occasionally twitch. He avoided your gaze entirely, focusing instead on the patterned wallpaper behind your head.

You, however, couldn't stop watching him. He was a breath of fresh, genuinely kind air among the posturing demons. The first crack in the façade happened during the third meeting, while discussing the difficult logistics of resource allocation.

“Frankly, the resources required for a joint sanitation effort are disproportionate to the perceived benefit,” sneered an Overlord named Zagan.

You were preparing a sharp counterargument when Abel, eyes wide and fixed on the floor, spoke up softly.

“With respect, Zagan, sanitation is not just about resources. If the lower rings are cleaner, the overall health of the populace improves, which reduces conflicts, which… which ultimately benefits everyone.” He sounded genuinely pained at having to contradict anyone.

The room fell silent. An Overlord advocating for public health?

You found yourself smiling, a rare, unguarded expression. “Abel is absolutely correct. It’s an investment in stability, not a drain on capital.”

Abel’s head snapped up. He looked directly at you, his eyes huge with surprise and a flash of undeniable, deep relief. The sudden, intense eye contact sent a surprising warmth through you.

After that, the meetings shifted. Abel still struggled to speak up, but he started directing his anxious, sidelong glances toward you. You would occasionally give him a small, encouraging nod when he offered a good point.

Weeks later, the bureaucratic grind had worn everyone down. During a scheduled fifteen-minute break, you found yourself standing alone near the untouched coffee service, feeling the crushing weight of the diplomatic tension.

“Ms. Morningstar?”

You turned. It was Abel. He was holding two Styrofoam cups of coffee, his hands shaking slightly.

“I—I noticed you haven’t taken a break yet,” he stammered, holding one cup out to you. “It’s… it’s atrocious coffee, but it is technically warm.”

You took the cup, your fingers brushing his. “Thank you, Abel. That’s very kind.”

He leaned against the wall, clearly gathering his courage. “I just wanted to say… you handle these meetings with such grace. I admire that. I get overwhelmed.”

“Please, call me (Y/N),” you insisted gently. “And you handle them just fine. You just have the misfortune of being the only one focused on something other than profit.”

He blinked at the easy compliment, his pale cheeks turning rosy. “I… I appreciate that. I think the only way I survive these is by thinking about… well, about the logic. And trying not to upset anyone.”

“I’ve noticed,” you said, taking a sip of the truly atrocious coffee. You paused, then took a leap. “You know, these formal settings are terrible places to discuss real problems. Perhaps you could… give me a less-formal briefing on the lower ring’s logistical needs? Away from the eyes and ears of the committee?”

Abel’s eyes widened, his screen-door anxiety clearly hitting max level. “Oh! A… a private briefing? But… wouldn’t that violate the transparency clause?”

You lowered your voice, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “Only if we get caught. Think of it as… high-stakes field research. Do you know a place in the Pride Ring that has decent coffee and absolutely terrible surveillance?”

He looked at you, the daughter of Lucifer, an Angelic diplomat, inviting him to a clandestine meeting in a questionable coffee shop. His fear battled intensely with an intoxicating mix of intrigue and sheer adoration.

“There’s… there’s a small, family-owned establishment in the West End. They mostly serve pastries and have a security system from the 1970s. Tomorrow evening? Seven o’clock?”

“Perfect,” you confirmed, giving him a quick, genuine smile. “And Abel? Wear something that isn't a suit. This is a field trip.”

The West End coffee shop smelled strongly of stale sugar and ancient dust. It was perfect.

You sat across from Abel at a small, wobbly table. He was wearing a simple, dark sweater that somehow made him look even more approachable and sweet. He looked utterly terrified, yet happier than you’d ever seen him.

“I still feel like I should be writing a detailed memo about this location,” he admitted, nervously stirring his lukewarm tea.

“Relax,” you chuckled, reaching across the table to gently still his hand on the spoon. “We're just two demons having a completely innocent, completely unauthorized conversation.”

Your touch was enough to short-circuit his nervous system. He froze, his gaze locking onto your hand over his.

“R-right. Innocent,” he echoed, his voice breathy.

The conversation started with logistics, sanitation, power grid stability, property deeds. But quickly, the official pretense fell away. You found yourself asking him about his life before Hell, about his dreams for the future, and about his favorite music. He, in turn, hesitantly asked about Heaven, about what it was like growing up there, and about the pressure of diplomacy.

You discovered he loved gardening and was desperately trying to cultivate Hell-roses that weren't immediately deadly. You told him about how much you missed the quiet moments of reading in the library, away from your father's grand projects.

An hour later, you were laughing, a genuine, easy sound, after he recounted a highly embarrassing incident involving a bureaucratic snafu and a mountain of mismatched forms.

“You’re really… easy to talk to, (Y/N),” he admitted, looking down at his tea. “I thought you’d be… more severe.”

“And I thought you’d be more focused on your spreadsheet integrity,” you countered gently. “I like this version better, Abel.”

He finally met your eyes, the nervousness replaced by a deep, affectionate earnestness.

“I… I like this version of me, too. The one who isn’t terrified of public speaking and is… is spending time with you.” He hesitated, then pushed a tiny, withered Hell-rose bloom across the table. “This is a terrible place for a formal gesture, but… is this a date? Is that what this is?”

You picked up the tiny, dark flower, its petals soft and surprisingly un-threatening. You smiled, your heart feeling warm and dangerously light.

“I think,” you confirmed, tucking the flower behind your ear, “this is definitely a date, Abel. And you know what the rules are for dates?”

His eyes widened, awaiting instruction. “N-no, I don’t. What are the rules?”

You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand. “You have to ask for the next one.”

The door to the newly decorated suite at the Happy Hotel, a gift from Charlie, complete with painfully cheerful, oversized pillows, closed with a soft, final click.

You and Abel stood in the middle of the plush carpet, both still wearing your wedding attire. Your dress felt elaborate and heavy; Abel’s jacket looked stiff and formal. The air was thick with the scent of a dozen congratulatory bouquets and a shared, palpable nervousness.

You looked at Abel, who was meticulously adjusting his already perfect bowtie for the third time, his pale face flushed pink.

“Well,” you whispered, trying to sound casual, “we did it. We survived the ceremony, the slightly aggressive cake-cutting ritual, and Angel’s best man speech.”

Abel laughed, a breathy, relief-filled sound. “And we survived Husk giving me a final, very intense death-stare just as he walked out the door. I think that was the hardest part.”

You stepped closer, taking his hands in yours. His palms were warm and slightly damp.

“He’s just being protective, sweetie. It means he cares,” you reassured him. You smoothed down the lapels of his jacket, noting the rapid beat of his heart under the crisp fabric. “Are you okay? You look… very stressed.”

Abel’s eyes, usually wide with general anxiety, were focused intently on yours.

“I’m better than okay, (Y/N). I’m married to the kindest, most wonderful person in all of Hell,” he murmured. He squeezed your hands gently. “It’s just… now that we’re finally alone, and it’s… it’s our wedding night…”

He trailed off, unable to voice the massive, unspoken topic hanging between you both. You knew exactly what he meant. Neither of you had ever been here before. Everything was new, terrifying, and wondrous.

“I know,” you whispered, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “I’m terrified, too. Terrified of doing something wrong. Terrified of… of being bad at this.”

He pulled back just enough to look at your face, his expression melting with instant sympathy. “Oh, no! Don’t think that! You could never be bad at anything, (Y/N). I just… I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t want to hurt you or rush you. I just want… I want to be close to you.”

You let out a shaky breath, feeling the tension ease. His honesty was always the anchor.

“Me too. Just… close,” you confirmed. “Maybe we should start with less complex tasks. Like, removing this armor?” You gestured to your elaborate dress.

Abel’s smile was fragile but genuine. “A beautiful and necessary first step.”

The next few minutes were a flurry of awkward, giggling coordination. Abel was utterly devoted to helping you out of the complicated array of fastenings, zippers, and hooks. He moved with extreme care, his fingers clumsy but tender against your skin whenever he accidentally brushed your neck or shoulder. Each successful undoing felt like a massive victory.

Once the gown was pooled at your feet, and you stood in a soft slip, the air felt suddenly warmer. Abel’s coat and vest were discarded next, leaving him in his crisp, white shirt, which emphasized the strong, nervous line of his shoulders.

He turned back to you, the nervousness in his eyes now mixed with unconcealed admiration.

“You’re… you’re truly beautiful, (Y/N),” he breathed, stepping toward you.

This time, when he reached for you, the touch was different, slow, deliberate. He cupped your cheek with a slightly trembling hand, his thumb stroking your jawline.

He leaned in slowly, giving you all the time in the world to pull back. When you didn't, he closed the distance.

His kiss was everything he was: gentle, hesitant, and overflowing with pent-up adoration. His lips were soft against yours, a nervous exploration that quickly deepened into something warmer, more confident, as you kissed him back.

He made a soft, needy sound in his throat, pulling you closer until your bodies were pressed together. You could feel the warmth and slight tremor in his frame.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, sinking into the kiss. The fear hadn't vanished, but it was being drowned out by affection and desire.

Abel broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours, his breath coming quick and shallow.

“Is this… is this okay?” he whispered, his eyes dark with uncertainty and longing.

“It’s more than okay,” you murmured, reaching up to unbutton the top of his shirt, freeing a bit of space around his neck.

He took that as the invitation it was. He lowered his head, pressing soft, reverent kisses along your collarbone, his hands moving to trace the delicate strap of your slip. His touch was feather-light, as if he were afraid you might shatter.

You reached down and covered his hand, guiding it to rest firmly on your hip. You wanted him to be sure, to take up space.

“You don’t have to be afraid, Abel,” you whispered, pulling him closer to the bed. “We can stop anytime. But right now, I just want you to be with me.”

He nodded, his gaze intensely focused on yours, a look of pure, sweet devotion overriding his shyness. He moved with a new, emboldened purpose, lifting you gently and setting you down on the soft sheets.

He climbed onto the bed beside you, his weight sinking into the mattress. He pushed aside the fussy white pillows, clearing a space just for the two of you.

Abel then started on the final barrier, his breathing quickening as his fingers found the hem of your slip. He pulled it slowly up, his eyes never leaving yours, checking for any sign of hesitation. When the silk was gone, and you were skin-to-skin beneath the sheets, the shared silence was heavy with reverence.

He finally settled beside you, gathering you into his arms. He held you tightly for a long moment, just basking in the reality of your shared intimacy.

Then, with a final, determined intake of breath, Abel moved over you. He wasn’t slick or practiced; his movements were fumbling, driven purely by instinct and a desperate need to feel truly joined. He guided himself carefully, ensuring there was no suddenness, only tender, slow integration.

A gasp escaped your lips, part surprise, part sensation. Abel froze instantly, his weight shifting off you.

“Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry, I—”

You silenced his panicked apology with a kiss, pulling his face down to yours.

“No, no. It’s okay. Just… just wait,” you soothed, running your hands down his tense back. “You’re wonderful. Just stay with me.”

He watched your face, his worry slowly replaced by a look of bewildered, intense pleasure as you started to move, setting a gentle, unhurried rhythm that was all your own. He quickly followed your lead, his initial awkwardness melting away, replaced by an earnest, all-consuming focus on your shared closeness.

He was devoted, responsive, and completely absorbed in the profound, simple joy of finally being one with you. Every touch was infused with the sincerity of his long-held affection. When the release finally came, it was not loud or aggressive, but a deep, shuddering wave that passed through both of you simultaneously, leaving him spent, breathless, and utterly overwhelmed.

He collapsed onto the pillows beside you, his arm draped across your waist, pulling you into his side.

“Oh, (Y/N),” he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “That was… that was better than I ever dreamed.”

You shifted, resting your head on his chest, listening to the frantic, contented beat of his heart.

“Me too, Abel. Me too,” you sighed, feeling safer and more loved than you ever had in Hell.

He squeezed you tightly, the awkward Overlord now just a warm, content husband. “Good. Because I want to do that again. When you’re ready. No pressure, though! Whenever you want! Maybe tomorrow night? Or the night after? Or just—"

You laughed softly, nudging him with your elbow. "I think we can work on that tomorrow. For now, just hold me."