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wreckedandpolemic · 10 months ago

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pls post the stuff abt their kids omg

lalalala i didn’t tear up at Any point during the writing of this (she lied)

so your eldest, alanis, is matty’s little mini-me. from the minute she’s born, you can tell; she has a full head of dark, thick hair that you know will sprout into his pretty ringlets, his brown eyes blink up at you from her sweet little face, and you can even see his nose scrunched up in her tiny little features. you’ve never felt more in love than with her tiny little body against your chest, tears in matty’s eyes as he holds you both. “oh, my god,” he breathes. “i’m a dad. hello, little one. i love you so much. god, i didn’t know i could love someone this much. she’s so tiny!” he coos, staring down at her adoringly.

“she looks like you,” you murmur, stroking over the bridge of her nose, her little face smaller than your palm.

tears are spilling down matty’s cheeks, his smile brilliant. “you think so?” he chuckles wetly. “god, hope that’s the only thing she gets from me. listen to me, baba,” he says seriously, addressing her like she can understand him, her eyes wide with fascination. “don’t be like me. be like your mum, yeah? ‘cause she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” your heart melts, and despite the lingering pain and slight delirium, you’ve never been happier.

as alanis gets a little older, though, it’s obvious she’s ignoring his warning, matty’s personality as obvious in her as his hair. she’s a little diva (“confident!” matty chimes in.), bossy and a know-it-all (“self-assured and clever! aren’t you, little lani-girl? my clever girl, don’t listen to mummy.”), but underneath she really is the sweetest little thing. matty’s absolutely enamoured with her, spoils her rotten, unable to say no to her big brown eyes. you can’t complain too much, though — you know from experience how difficult those eyes are to refuse <3

she’s nearly three when you tell her you’re pregnant again, slightly worried about her reaction because she’s so used to being your spoilt little baby. but her little face just lights up, toddling towards you on her chubby, unsteady legs and pressing her hands against your belly. “hi, baby!” she says excitedly. “baby soon, mummy?”

you laugh, picking her up and smothering her in kisses as matty tells her, “babies, sweetheart.”

alanis gasps, her eyes going comically wide as she goggles at you. “how many, mummy? four? seven?”

you shake your head, your own eyes widening. “no, baby. just two, promise.”

and, true enough, six months later, you bring vera and fiona home. alanis is obsessed with them, obsessed with being a big sister. she’s gentler with them than you’ve ever seen her, fascinated as they learn to grip onto her fingers. one night, you go to put her to bed and find her in the twins’ room, singing nursery rhymes and lullabies over their cribs. you sprint for matty, tugging him by the arm to show him, tears brimming in both your and his eyes.

“she’s so precious,” matty whispers, your head resting against his shoulder as he wraps an arm around you.

“she’s just like you. aren’t you, baby?” you add when she looks up and sees you both watching her. “you’re dada’s little mini-me, right?”

alanis nods wildly, running as fast as her little legs will carry her into matty’s arms, giggling wildly as he spins her around. “my little girl,” he grins. “not so little anymore, are you? before i know it, you’ll be sixteen and kissing boys. or girls.”

she wrinkles her little nose, the expression so reminiscent of your husband that you can’t stifle your laugh. “kissing for mummy and dada. not for lani. yucky.” she says firmly.

matty nods proudly. “that’s right, sweetheart. yucky. no kissing ‘til you’re twenty-five. no, thirty.”

you scoff. “we were married before i was twenty-five, matthew.”

“god, i don’t know how your dad didn’t fu- flipping kill me. i get it, now,” he says, balancing alanis on his hip. “i need her to stay my little girl forever. okay, lani? gotta be dada’s sweet little baby girl forever,” he tells her seriously as she reaches up to tug on his curls. “you want a bedtime story?” he asks, and she agrees enthusiastically, matty singing to her under his breath as he carries her to her room. you watch them go, in their own little world, your chest swelling with love.

watching their little personalities develop as they grow up is the absolute highlight of your life. alanis gets more like matty every passing day, all unruly curls and biting wit. even when she grows into a moody teenager, the two of them stay heartwarmingly close, matching curly heads bent together, always whispering and giggling. vera starts out life as the easiest of your three girls, calm and easily entertained, rarely crying, and largely stays that way. in your house of dramatists and divas, you sometimes worry that she’s so laid-back that she’ll just disappear. but she has a built-in best friend in boisterous little fiona, always dragging her out from under a pile of books on some adventure or another.

matty’s never so happy as when he’s with his girls. he’ll never think twice about calling off or leaving work early if you need or even just want him to, always at your side. knowing your girls won’t grow up how you did, emotionally walled off in a house that wasn’t a home, warms your heart. your home is soundtracked by laughter, squabbling, the crackle of a vinyl player or the chimes of a piano.

you don’t realise how different their childhoods are to yours until alanis comes home, aged thirteen, and bemoans some embarrassing situation involving the girl she likes, dramatically throwing her head into your lap and her feet into matty’s. you didn’t come out to your parents until you were in college, and you’d never have gone to them with boy problems. so you cuddle your girl close, kiss her curly little head, offer her ice cream and a movie to feel better.

vera pokes her head around the door just as elle is starting to study for the lsats, tucking herself in between you and alanis and letting you squeeze her into your arms. when fiona joins you fifteen minutes later, matty declares you’re having a movie night and bedtime is cancelled, darting off to bring you all popcorn.

three hours later, your girls have fallen asleep in a pile on the sofa between you and your husband, and the pair of you are fighting off the sandman yourselves. you tuck them carefully into bed, their peaceful faces twitching into tiny smiles when you kiss their foreheads gently and creep into your own bed. eyes closing with matty’s arms around you, your last waking thoughts are of the perfect family you’ve built. this, you think, is home. this is love.

#i’m lowkey so nervous to post this #i have actually never wanted to write kidfic before this #i’m so obsessed with them :(#matty pls let me have your kids #matty healy x reader #matty healy #the 1975 fanfic #the 1975 #writing #white and gold #alanis #vera #fiona #blurb

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azelmawrites · 8 days ago

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Me & The Devil // Ch.1

Summary: Your life couldn't get any worse. You tried to convince yourself that you had hit rock bottom, but that was before you ran into trouble on your first day at the abbey, where you were meant to train and become a devout nun. Instead, you find yourself making a deal with the Devil on your very first day.

Warnings: demon!yelena, fem!reader, reader is black coded, religious themes, lesbian sex, religious trauma, period-typical homophobia. Please note that I am neither a fluent English speaker nor a Catholic. I do not intend to offend any religion or its followers. Any portrayal of religious themes is purely fictional and not meant to disrespect anyone's beliefs

For as long as you gained consciousness you believed you were rotten. Sure, your father was a simple religious man and he sent you off to an abbey to become god’s most dedicated nun, but you never felt pure. For as long as you can remember, you felt like there was a layer of grime on your soul and skin that you can’t get rid of by simply scrubbing.

It’s possibly why you felt so envious of Sister Catherine.

You’d only been at the abbey for three hours, and already, you envied her and wished to be like her. From the strands visible beneath her veil, her hair appeared blonde, straight, and perfectly neat. Ontop of her beauty, she was very sociable and kind.

“After morning prayer we take turns to prepare meals. The more senior nuns do not participate in chores like the rest of us, since you’re new you will possibly be given the task of fetching water, sweeping, laundry as well,” She says, her gentle voice echoing slightly against the stone walls of the long corridor.

People at this age and time don’t show kindness, and as much as the church tried to preach otherwise—the class system still exists everywhere, even in this abbey. If you came from a good family, then you were welcome and popular. You clearly weren’t, the frayed threads in your sleeves, and the patch on your leather bag told everyone what they needed to know before you uttered a single word.

Sister Catherine continues, finally reaching the end of the hallway. “Thankfully, we each get our own rooms. This is yours.” She tells you, then opens the door and you smell the dust before you see it.

The room was small, and you knew it could be considered a broom closet if it were a few centimeters smaller.

She allows you to enter it first, so you do, and set your leather bag on the small wooden desk.

“I and the other junior nuns tried to clean it, but for some reason we couldn’t get the smell of the dust away,” she said, entering after you inside the tight room. You can tell that the room was hastily cleaned, it still needed another sweep and clean and you decided you would do it later.

“I can lend you my scented candle, if you would like so you can sleep peacefully tonight. The smell of the dust is truly prominent.” Sister Catherine tells you as you sit on the tight bed.

“Thank you, Sister Catherine. I will take you up on your offer, if you don’t mind.” You say, and turn to look at her with a smile. She grins back, “I would be happy to, I will give it to you right after we finish evening prayers.”

She then takes three steps back, and is out of your room. “I’ll let you get changed now, after you’re done make sure you go to the kitchens so Sister Margret tells you what’s your chore for today,” she stops to smile and wave her hand as if to reassure you of any worries you might have, “Don’t worry, your first task will possibly be peeling potatoes for supper, or maybe gathering firewood.”

You nod once only, already feeling a little tired from the constant returning of her smiles. “Alright. Thank you for everything Sister Catherine, I’ll see you around.”

She grins and then walks away just seconds before you shut the door.

You look around the tight room. It’s void from any personality, and you knew that if the sun wasn’t coming from the small window this room would’ve looked even tighter, and more ominous. You sigh before you open the window and allow fresh air to come inside.

The room faces the forest behind the abbey. The thick trees are so tall, and so terrifying even in the morning. Although the metal bars on the small window should’ve made you feel like a prisoner, you were glad that they were there, at least to offer you some kind of faux comfort at night as you knew your imagination would run wild at the thoughts of what sort of creatures would enter your tight cuboid-shaped room.

There’s no key in the door for you to lock your room, and that fact alone makes you quickly change out of your tattered dress and into the neat and ironed habit. You then work in taking out of your things and setting them on their respective places in the already too-minimalist room.

A comb and brush, a bottle of hair oil, a needle kit, undergarments, a bar of soap and a washcloth, two equally ugly dresses. You set your bible and rosary beads on your night stand. Then your most prized possessions, a journal and a pencil that you stole from your father before being banished to this abbey.

You realize fifteen minutes pass, and so you quickly exit your room and try to remember the corridors Sister Catherine took to reach the kitchens.

It was clear that you were late, and were made to be even later with you getting lost several times; as when you stumble into the kitchen, you’re greeted with a frowny woman. Her full face and constant frown almost reminding you of a frog.

This had to be Sister Margret.

“You are late,” she says when you finally reach her, then she turns around and walks towards a counter with piles of potatoes. Sister Catherine was correct, your first task was to peel insane amounts of potatoes. There is another nun, with her sleeves pushed to her elbows and working on peeling carrots, she acknowledges you with one short look, but quickly looks away before Sister Margret catches her.

“This is Sister Andrea,” she introduces, a pale dark-haired woman. Sister Andrea formally acknowledges you with a slight bow of her head. “The task is easy enough, but if you manage to mess it up, I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to ‘help’ you.”

Without any further notice, Sister Margret walks away. Possibly to the front of the kitchen as if she’s surveying the nuns like a watchdog.

“Peace of the lord be with you, Sister Andrea.” You greet with a slight polite bow of your head.

“And with your spirit, Sister (Y/N).” She returns.

Then you fold your sleeves and take the potatoes and a knife and begin peeling. It’s very quiet between you and Sister Andrea, until another younger nun walks inside looking quite frazzled.

“You’re severely late, Sister Annabeth. You’re begging for more chores at this point.” Margret says with a glare.

Though Annabeth looks frazzled, her stare gains confidence as she stares at Margret with a belittling stare while fixing the buttons of her sleeves. “I was at Afternoon prayer with Father Peter.”

Margret doesn’t respond for a few long moments. The two simply seem to be in a staring contest. It’s Margret who looks away first, she exhales and says. “Go do your task, I need to speak with Sister Jocelyn.”

Then the two finally part ways.

“Where were you before coming here?” Sister Andrea asks.

You glance at her, to find her staring at you while her fingers are expertly peeling the carrots. “Um. I used to work at my father’s bakery.”

“What about siblings?” She asks, still watching you with her analytical grey eyes.

“None, I had a younger sister who died during birth, along with my mother.” You say, rinsing the peeled potato and throwing it in the pot.

“I’m sorry.” Andrea tells you. “I am an older sister myself, so I shall consider you my younger sister.” she says with a smile that looks slightly fake.

You return it. “I’m thankful for that.” you tell her.

“Since I am your older sister now, I shall offer you some of my wise advice.” She says, and for the first time since you entered the kitchen she stops peeling the carrots. She glances at Annabeth and whispers, “you shall never cross Sister Annabeth and Sister Catherine if you want to live your days here in peace.”

You open your mouth to speak, but she continues. “You shall never leave your room after the candles are blown out.”

Her stare is sharp and her tone is so serious, your heart drums and your stomach freezes with fear that you knew all too well. She was serious, and her tone allowed for no room for humor. So, you nodded.

By evening prayer, you find yourself forgetting Andrea’s words. That, or Sister’s Catherine bubbly personality allows you to toss Andrea’s words into the backburner. She walks you to your room with her cedar-scented candle between your palms.

When you enter your room, she follows you and lights up the candle for you with a match borrowed from the kitchen.

“I’ll make sure not to use even a quarter of it. Thank you, again, Sister Catherine.” You tell her, then lean in to take a whiff of the fragrance of the candle.

The girl grins and says, “Don’t you worry, it’s a welcome gift from me to you. I have much of it.”

You almost want to ask her how she has an abundance of scented candles. They were quite expensive, especially the kind that were made by beeswax like the one she lent you. But you don’t ask, and blame it on her coming from a good family, unlike you.

“That’s a beautiful journal.” Catherine says, her fingers running the black leather of your journal. You want to be as kind as she was to you, and tell her that she may have your journal. It would make her very happy, and would certainly make you closer to the sociable girl.

But unlike her, you couldn’t afford to give away things. Your journal was your most treasured possession, so treasured you didn’t even write one letter in it. With that, you only offer her a tight smile.

Catherine leaves after bidding you goodnight. You immediately remove your habit, and hastily untie your corset, and only remain in your shift. You pour a little bit of water in the basin and lather your hands with soap, desperate to rid yourself from the constant grime on your hands and hoping that it would somehow remove the grime on your soul. When you’re done, you wash your face with fresh water. You make do off wetting the washcloth with water, and wipe your most worrisome places.

After rinsing your washcloth, you toss the used water outside the window and set your basin back on its place.

You pick up your Bible from the small wooden table next to your bed, fingers brushing over the worn leather cover. You don’t necessarily feel the pull to read, but it’s the best way to pass the time as you wait for the cedar-scented candle to fill the room with its calming fragrance. The soft flicker of the flame catches your attention, and you settle into the small chair beside the window, opening the pages to a random spot.

As the candle burns softly beside you, the stillness of the room feels comforting as it is suffocating. You find yourself praying that the days will pass quickly, that you’ll adjust, and that the sense of unfamiliarity will fade.

When you’re happy with the wax that had melted around the candle, and the scent in your room, you finally shut your bible, and close your window halfway—just open enough to allow fresh air to enter your room, but not too big to allow squirrels or birds to enter.

Finally, you blow on the candle, and quickly jump into your new bed.

But despite your efforts to settle in, sleep refuses to come. The bed feels unfamiliar, the thin sheets not quite warm enough against the chill that lingers in the air. You toss and turn for what feels like hours, the sound of the forest too loud and too scary for your liking.

If your body refuses to sleep, then so does your mind as it is running with recollections of today. Your commute was long and excruciating, and your last goodbye—if you could even call it that, as he refused to look you in your face as you left. Then to how Sister Margret was horrible, and her even wrose actual sister, Sister Magdalene.

You liked Catherine, despite you both being the same age, you couldn’t feel more different than her. She was better than you in many aspects. Not only in her desired wasted beauty in this abbey, you knew that if she was in the city that men would be at her peck and call if she batted her pretty long eyelashes. She was more sociable, more bubbly, more smiley, more helpful, even more pious than anyone you’ve known in your whole entire life.

Sister Annabeth was as pretty, only she was brunette, her eyes sharp and dark. But her personality was nasty, she had an air of nasty untouchable arrogance. To your surprise, Annabeth and Catherine could not stand each other. But whatever it was, you were on Catherine’s side.

You didn’t particularly enjoy Father Peter’s scripture reading. His voice was too gruff and too loud, and it echoed all over the chapel, it was ticking and irritating your ear the whole time. You couldn’t even be more grateful that he finished reading.

Finally, you give up. The idea of sleep seems futile for now. Maybe a walk would help clear your head, tire your body. The thought of fresh air, the cool night breeze, and the quiet of the abbey grounds seem like just the remedy you need. And besides, you never really got a chance to appreciate the beauty of the abbey in the sunlight, not with Sister Margret looming over you.

You leave your room as quietly as possible, the hallway dimly illuminated by the moonlight shining from the windows. Like you got lost many times today, you also kept getting lost in this night. This property by itself was very large, it’s why it even managed to give every nun their own private room.

You walk without a purpose, having no real sense of where you're going, the vastness of the abbey's halls confusing you at every turn.

Your feet bring you to a small alcove where the door to a broom closet is slightly ajar. Through the crack in the door, you catch a flicker of soft light—candlelight, flickering in the dimness of the closet.

Curious, you inch closer, your footsteps almost silent as you press your ear to the door. You can hear the faintest whisper of voices, soft but charged with something you can't quite make out. The air feels thick, as if something is amiss, the light from the candle casting shadows that make the space feel even more cramped and secretive.

Then, the faint sounds reach your ears—something too inappropriate for the setting, too intimate, too raw.

“Father please…” a familiar voice moans, and your eyes widen at that.

“Shut your loud mouth, or I will shut it for you.” Father Peter voice comes back in a gruff hiss.

You’re shocked, and you try your best to have faith in Sister Catherine. You want to continue having this pure image of her, you wanted to continue to envy her, to be her friend too. But you can’t help it when your greedy eyes come to stare at the small part between the door and it’s hinges.

Like you suspected, and much to your dismay.

There was Catherine, her shift hitched up to expose her thighs and her arms wrapped around Father Peter’s neck. She was humping onto his crotch. Your eyes widen even more, and you can’t help but let out a small shocked yelp, and in your movement at hiding your mouth and breath, the door hinges let out a scream.

Catherine and Father Peter stop, you don’t even wait to see what happens next as you immediately turn around and take off as fast as you could. Uncaring if your shift was flying and exposing your thighs, uncaring if your running footfalls were loud, you didn’t even turn once to see if they were following you.

Though as you take on a sharp corner, from your side view you see a bright light lighting the whole corridor. You run, and run. You don’t even stop as you find the exit door. Your breath comes in sharp, ragged bursts as you burst out into the garden, not giving a single care that you were barefoot and your feet were touching the outside mud and dirt.

The only thing that matters is escape.

Who knew what could someone as powerful as Father Peter could do to you? He wouldn’t want you to tattletale for the entire abbey, and allowing the news to reach all of the country.

Your running takes you into the forest behind the Abbey. You don’t even stop for a second.

You reach an abandoned house in the middle of the forest, looking like it must’ve been a lord’s country home, its crumbling facade barely standing against the weight of time. The door creaks open with a loud groan as you push it aside. You only needed it to offer you a place to hide, in case you were being followed.

Your heart still pounds in your chest as you run up the creaky stairs, the wooden steps groaning beneath your feet with every hurried step.

Bursting inside a room, with a fire place on it’s east wall, and a window adjacent to it. You quickly hide against the fire place and holding onto the windowsill with your shaky fingers.

Your chest heaves as you press your back against the wall and collapse to the floor, trying to calm your breath. The tears that have been threatening to spill finally do, and they blur your vision. You rise unsteadily and peer through the grime-covered glass.

Fortunately, there’s no movement in the forest. No light belonging to a cedar-scented candle ricocheting between the thick trees. You sigh in relief, then sit back against the wall and scoot closer to the fire place and away from the window—as if staying next to it would offer you a chance to hide yourself even better.

When your eyes shift onto the soot covered floor, it’s then when you notice the strange symbols on the floor beneath the fireplace. The eerie summoning circle, its lines worn and faint, stretches around you. Above the mantle, there are ominous offerings—It’s when you see a singular decaying human finger do your tears fall. Next to it is a jar filled of some unknown powder, and crystals so black and dark that nothing reflects from them, and a skull, that looked like it belonged to a human. A cold shiver runs down your spine.

When your tears drop onto the middle of the circle, its etched lines light up in an angry crimson that makes you sob in fear. Then the air grows so cold with sharp wind that’s slapping your face and body.

Your breath comes out in sharp, visible bursts, but it doesn’t warm you. The wind that has appeared from nowhere howls through the room, fierce and violent, ripping at your hair and clothes. It seems to be coming from all directions, swirling around you, pulling at your very core and immobilizing you from moving a single inch.

Eyes shut sharp, and lips open as you yell as loud as you can. Now, instead of wanting to hide from Father Peter and Catherine, you want to be found. Just so you can escape the prominent dark magic surrounding you.

All of a sudden, everything stops. The air is still, and you can’t hear a single sound at all. Not even the rustle of the leaves, or the hooting of the owls, or even the noise of the forest insects. Nothing. As if everything disappeared.

Yet, even with your eyes closed you can feel the wooden flooring beneath your legs and knees, and pinching into your palms. You’re too scared to open your eyes, the weight of silence is suffocating, pressing down on your body like the walls are closing on you.

You open one eye slowly to inspect first, and when you’re met with the sight of the ground, still covered with dust and soot, debris, and the summoning circle no longer pulsing with energy, it looks as lifeless as it was earlier, you open both of your eyes.

But you make the mistake of lifting your head. You’re met with glowing red eyes, you can’t distinguish the white from the colored part as the whole eye is red. They’re so captivating that you’re unable to look away.

Then, the mysterious figure comes out from the dark and their figure is illuminated by the fullmoon.

Large, imposing, and unafraid to take up space like you are. Skin as white as paper, hair so blonde its platinum, with large bat wings. It’s a woman, is what you settle on after analyzing everything about this demon.

She is the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen.

Her presence is overwhelming, like the very air around you has thickened, pressing against your chest with the weight of her gaze. Her eyes remain locked on you, unblinking, unyielding.

Her lips part and her smooth deep voice comes out, it vibrates within your chest and you even hear it in the deepest parts of your head. “You should not be here.”

You try to speak, but the words catch in your throat, swallowed by your fear of what she might do to you. The demon’s lips curl into a slight smirk, as though she can sense your terror, and deeply enjoying it.

“Speak, mortal. Or I shall eat your soul and torture your body for centuries and make you wish you were dead.”

Your lips shake, and your vocal cords betray you as your tears roll down your cheeks.

“You don’t look like you’ve been sent by that imbecile Peter…” she says, tilting her head slightly and coming closer to you to claw your jaw. “I demand you to speak.”

“N-no, Father Peter didn’t send me here…” you say, gulping your throat and feeling how hot her skin is against your face.

“Then why are you here?” Her hold on your jaw tightens, and it hurts so much.

“I saw something I shouldn’t have at the abbey, so I ran away so I don’t get caught and get kicked out. Or I get sent back to my father.” You answer, then wipe your tears as she stares at you.

“You are a creature filled with fear, aren’t you?” she says, you expected her to smirk after that. But she only watches you with curiosity. As if you’re the enigma in this situation.

The demon releases your jaw, and you instinctively shrink, holding the sore spot where her sharp claws had gripped you. Her glowing red eyes narrow as she observes you.

“Fear… and something else,” she murmurs, her voice lower, almost contemplative. “You reek of desperation, mortal. A coward’s stench, yes, but also something more... raw.”

You swallow hard, unsure whether to respond or stay silent. Her words sting, but there’s no denying the truth in them.

“Tell me,” she continues, circling you now, her wings casting ominous shadows on the wall, it’s then that you realize she has thirty shadows and none of them walk in the same direction as she does, it’s like they’re coming from everywhere. “What is it you fear more—being cast out by those simpering fools you call sisters, or returning to the man who made you this weak?”

Your heart pounds as her words cut deep, exposing the very thoughts you’ve been trying to bury since your arrival at the abbey.

“Both,” you manage to croak, surprising even yourself. Her gaze snaps to yours, her glowing eyes narrowing dangerously.

“Lies,” she hisses, her voice a sharp whip against your ears. “Do not insult me, mortal. I can see into the marrow of your being.” She leans in, her hot breath brushing against your face. “So, I’ll ask you once more—what do you fear the most?”

You tremble, your knees threatening to give way beneath you. The truth claws its way up your throat, and before you can stop yourself, the words spill out.

“Being sent to my father,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“Why is that?” she asks, once again circling you.

“Because he said if he sees me again, he will strip me naked and burn me at the stake.” You say as your tears spill and a gasp is plucked from your chest as the telltale of a crying fit comes out.

“So, you are a witch?” she asks with slight amusement.

“No.” You say, your tears blur your vision as you try to meet her gaze.

She stops, and crouches to your level but you still find yourself looking up at her. “So, what are you?”

You look down at the floor in shame. Your tears now coming out in millions and thousands, and wetting the floor beneath you that you can’t even decipher if it’s your urine or simply your tears. Before you can begin sobbing loudly, she claws at your jaw again and bellows so loud, “Speak!”

Flinching at her thunderous command, the sheer force of it rattling your very core, you mutter. “He caught me kissing my friend from school…she was a girl.”

“Oh.” she lets out a mocking sound. Her eyes were so condescending, it was clear that she thought mortals were below here and humans were the vermin of the earth. But your words must’ve made her feel even more disgusted at humans.

“So you are a sapphic.” she concludes, and your face heats up from shame and your hatred at yourself even more intense.

Why couldn’t you be like Sister Catherine? Even if she wasn’t as pure as you thought, at least she was normal. She wasn’t broken like you.

You want to be able to wallow away in your shame and humiliation by yourself, without having a demon making you feel even worse than you feel. Or at least be allowed to stare at anything but her fierce crimson eyes.

“When I think humans can’t even be more backward and primitive, you find ways to prove me wrong.” She says with a laugh that invites nothing good. Your crying grows even more intense, with your chest convulsing as you sob.

She narrows her eyes, “is that all that worries you, little mortal?” she says it as if the matter of you being burned alive and humiliated is nothing. Like it’s a children’s concern.

Your tears slip into her hand that is gripping your jaw, and she must hate it as her large yet slender fingers come to wipe your tears. “There…there… little cowardly mortal.”

Sniffing as you stare at her with wide eyes. “Luckily for you, I am not like those primitive humans,” whispers, and her grip on your jaw turns gentle. Her other hand comes to hold your hand and help you stand up to your full height—which is still much smaller than her.

You find yourself lost in her mesmerizing gaze, an inexplicable sense of solace washing over your heart and soul at her words.

“Shall I take it upon myself to rid you of all your little troubles?” Her offer is gentle, inviting, and warm.

This time, you feel her voice in your heart. As if it’s embracing your fragile heart. You open your lips to respond.

“But of course, I’ll need something in return.” she whispers, her thumb rubbing your cheek. You find yourself wanting to agree without even wanting to know what is it she wants. You just want to please her, and do anything she says.

“You see…that ungrateful Peter summoned me centuries ago. He wanted to remain youthful, and a mortal for three centuries, I would grant him all the money he wants, and give him all the women he desires, in exchange for his soul after that period…that was four centuries ago.” she explains, yet you find yourself captivated by the way her lips move, and the way her pearly white fangs appear. Though, you find yourself wanting to feel those fangs against your skin.

She smirks as you nod attentively at her words. “He is hiding behind that abbey, the stones are infused with salt so I cannot enter inside. He also wears a silver cross necklace,” she stops to tuck in a curly hair strand behind your ear, and it’s then that you remember you basically left your room half naked, with simply a shift covering your body.

“I want you to make him take off the necklace, and lure him outside of the abbey. When you do, think my name three times and I will come and finish him off.” She finishes, now both of her hands cupping your face. She’s so close that your bare breasts are flat against the hardness of her clothes.

“What’s your name?” you ask, your voice only a layer above a whisper.

She smirks, leaning down and pulling you even closer so she can whisper in your ear. So no one else can hear besides you—not like there was anyone, but it still made the prominent wetness between your legs run down your thighs.

“Yelena, my name is Yelena. Sweet cowardly little mortal.”

When you think of your agreement to her deal with constant nodding, that sharp icy cold breeze returns once again, this time it’s gentle, like soft kisses filling your body.

#y’all I’m actually so fucking nervous posting this but I love this concept honestly #azelmawrites #yelena x fem!reader #yelena x reader #yelena aot x reader #yelena aot imagine #aot yelena x reader #snk yelene x reader #yelena snk x reader #yelena aot x fem!reader #aot yelena x fem!reader #tw religious trauma #tw religious themes #tw religious imagery

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