#michael only

Michael crawled into your lap as soon as you started kissing him, as if his weight can hold you down, keep you here with him. It’s strange to feel the short hair beneath your fingers as you slide a hand over the top of his head to cup the back of his neck, a reminder that he’s changed.

You wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t.

“Gabriel,” he groans, fingers haphazardly dancing across your chest, as if unsure where he wants to touch first. “I want—I want all of you.”

You can feel that much pressing into your stomach. He keeps making short, aborted thrusts with his hips, as if trying to fight against the base urges coursing through him.

“I want you too,” you remind him. You catch one of his wayward hands and slide your fingers through his, squeezing his hand. It’s difficult to try and be the cool and collected one, but one of you needs to steer this encounter and Michael’s ‘references’ are a bunch of books written for horny teenagers.

They do nothing to help him cope with the feelings he, as far as you know, hasn’t explored with anyone. For him it’s always been you, or no one.

“Slow down,” you pant as he makes a noise of frustration. His neatly manicured nails tug at the collar of your t-shirt.

“I don’t like these clothes,” he whines.

“If you give me a second, they’re really quite easy to take off. Nothing like some of the older fashions. No stays, no hosiery, no doublets—”

“I. Don’t. Care,” Michael states petulantly, tugging, again, at your shirt collar. “I want it off now.”

Well, this shirt is already a lost cause, his insistence causing the fabric to strain and tear, leaving it loose and sagging. “Take your shirt off and I’ll get mine,” you offer, releasing his hand to grab the hem of your top and yank it off. The sound of small objects hitting the floor follows and you tense, glancing to see what you knocked over.

It’s the buttons from Michael’s shirt. He’d been too impatient to bother pulling it over his head or undoing them, opting for the quicker route of ripping it off.

“Okay, we can’t go about ruining all of our clothes,” you protest. Finding a comfortable shirt that fits well is harder than you’d expected. Sure, you can get it tailored, but finding the time for that with everything else—your son, your boyfriend, your work, trying to make sure you don’t give your cover away and invite a horde of demons upon the city—is another activity on your ever-growing list.

“You’re not going to need them,” he grunts, struggling with the button on the front of his pants. He gets it done and immediately goes to jerk down the zipper. “I didn’t even bother—ow!”

It takes a moment to realize what happened, and when you do, you have to look away to stop from making an inappropriate laugh. “I think—” You have to stop, clear your throat, and try again. “I think we need to get you some underclothes after this.”

Still beet-red, Michael manages to get his zipper down, wincing the entire way.

Expression mostly under control, you help him pull out the wounded member, power surging through your fingers, soothing the abrasions on his tender flesh. Once that’s done, you leave your hand there, stroking him tenderly. Michael’s mouth drops open and he groans, the red in his cheeks not abating the slightest.

“W-wait,” he stammers, fingers searching for your zipper. You stop his hands, squeezing them.

“You know humans have a thing they do,” you whisper, guiding his hands to your bare skin.

“Humans do lots of things,” Michael replies, though there’s less of a bite to his tone than usual. Probably because he’s distracted by tracing the contours of your chest, staring oddly at the strangeness of your belly-button before refocusing on your nipples, amused by the responsiveness of them.

“But I think this one will catch your interest.” You interrupt his wanderings, and Michael’s attention returns to your fly. Again, you stop him. “See,” you continue, ignoring his pouting, “When one of them gets hurt, someone close to them will offer to kiss it better.”

“So?” Frustrated, he tries to shove a hand inside the band of your pants but he doesn’t get far.

“So…” you reply, getting his attention by cupping his sac. “Wouldn’t you like me to kiss your boo-boo better?”

Michael blinks, slowly processing your offer. It probably doesn’t help that you’ve started rolling the soft skin in your hand, enjoying the way he trembles at your touch.

“I—I’ve never heard of that as an effective healing method but one must test it to find out. So, we shall have to experiment,” he agrees, leaning into your hand, eyes fluttering closed and a blissful smile crossing his lips as you slide your fingers over the crown.

It takes a moment to roll him off of you and onto the couch, his whine at the lack of stimulation assuaged with a kiss on his lips. Then you kneel between his legs, smiling up at him. He bites his lower lip, hands fisting on his thighs as he watches you, almost bouncing in his spot.

“Someone is a little eager,” you murmur. You brush your thumb across the head before you lean down to kiss the tip, enjoying the sound of Michael sucking in a breath and then forgetting to exhale.

“Don’t forget to breathe,” you remind him, worried that he might just.

“I can’t promise that,” he squeaks. “I don’t—I’m not—how am I even supposed to think—” His voice rises and cuts off as your slide more of him past your lips, sucking on the head of him. “Oh, oh, Gabriel, I—”

Hastily you pull back, glancing up at Michael. His expression changes from rapture to confusion in a few languid blinks. “Wha—”

“I didn’t want your first time to be over so quickly,” you explain, resting your head on his leg.

“That’s—I wouldn’t—”

Raising one eyebrow, you brush the tip of your nail over the crown again. He shudders and gasps, lips moving but no words coming out.

“I want you to enjoy yourself, Michael. But I think you’ll get more out of it if we can make you last a little longer.”

“I have plenty of stamina,” he huffs churlishly.