#michael ro

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.

With a sigh, you stretch your arms above your head, moving them back to curve your body forward, displaying some of your best assets. “I’m ready to get to the good stuff,” you tell him.

“Stretching is a vital part to combat. Skipping it is the sign of a lazy fighter who has no comprehension of what it takes to be warrior.”

Michael scowls, holding one arm across his chest and then the other, seemingly oblivious. For someone who pays enough attention to find every flaw in whatever you do, he seems woefully incapable of noticing you flirting with him. It’s ridiculous.

“Sure, sure,” you reply dismissively. He’s so focused on being proper and following his procedures that he’s missed the show. You’d even touched your toes with your back to him, giving him an excellent view of your ass. Enough is enough.

You’re not planning on letting him dismiss your actions as anything other than what they are: flirting. Even if you have to beat it into his thick skull, you’re going to make him realize that you’re interested in him.

“Stretching won’t get that stick out of your ass you know,” you state drily, holding your hands out to the side and summoning your gauntlets. No point in wasting any more time.

“Vulgar and childish,” Michael mutters, taking a step back from you.

“Oh come on,” you goad, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “Don’t tell me you’re suddenly afraid of little old me.”

Michael’s scowl deepens, his eyebrows crawling low over his eyes. “Gauntlets are not an appropriate choice of Angel Blade,” he reprimands, materializing his great sword as you clap your hands together.

“‘Appropriate choice,’” you parrot back, inclined to roll your eyes. Unfortunately, it would be a wasted gesture in your angel form. “Angel Blades are a reflection of yourself.” Half of your mouth curves up. “So does that mean that liking me would be an inappropriate choice?”

Michael splutters, face turning blotchy and red.

“All signs point to yes!” With that cry, you launch yourself at Michael. He gets his greatsword up just in time, sparks cascading where the blade slides off the knuckles of your gauntlet. Laughing gleefully, you spin away.

“You have no range with gauntlets,” Michael snaps, starting on a series of crossbody cuts.

“That’s what our Grace is for,” you retort, dodging his blade at the last second, watching the sweat drip down his hands. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I would say you’re afraid of hurting me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re an archangel.” The next blow you deflect wide with one hand, springing at Michael’s unprotected side and landing a palm strike before continuing out of range.

“So, what, because I’m an archangel I can’t get hurt? And here I was, thinking you cared about my wellbeing.” The stinging precursor to sweat has you squinting as you redirect one of his attacks, trying to use more of his own momentum than your own strength.

“You are insufferable,” Michael growls, his jaw clenched.

“You wound me… with words, not your blade.” You yawn, looking bored, at the same time that you surreptitiously wipe sweat off your brow, under the pretext of fixing your hair. “You know, some people think that greatswords are overcompensation.” Slowly you rake your eyes over Michael’s form. “It might explain a few things.”

Previously you would have thought it impossible for an angel to turn so many vivid colors in such quick succession. First white, then red, and finally a lurid purple. Michael lives to exceed your expectations in the worst way, however.  

“And some would say if you chatter away in the midst of battle you will get yourself killed!”

“Aww, you do care!” Again you dance away, though this time the narrow misses aren’t deliberate on your part. Michael isn’t holding back anymore. Good, you think viciously. Sparring is pointless if both parties aren’t doing their best.

“Of course I do!” His honesty would come out in the midst of the two of you fighting, as you leap high to avoid an attack at your legs.

“Funny way of showing it,” you tease, cheeks starting to ache with the force of your smile. He is cute when he’s annoyed. “Trying to cut a girl to pieces. I’m really starting to feel like there’s some unresolved tension between us.”

The next strike Michael aims at you is sloppy, full of rage, and he overextends himself, leaving him off-balance and vulnerable.

You spring forwards, getting inside his guard and rendering his blade all but moot. “There are other disadvantages to wielding such a huge blade,” you inform him as you grab his lapels, sliding your right foot forward between his. “For instance, you keep everyone at bay but if someone gets up and inside your guard, you’re screwed.” In a last ditch attempt to stop what he knows is coming next, Michael snaps his wings forward and drops his greatsword, reaching for you. It’s too little, too late. Blocking him with your wings, you then retract them in as you toss him over your hip, slamming his back onto the ground.

“Point me,” you inform him with a smug grin.

Leaning down, you retrieve his sword for him, giving him a waggle of your butt as you do so. Nothing. “And here you are, forgetting the very first rule of fighting: never let go of your Angel Blade. I don’t have that problem.” You flex her hands, admiring the way your gloves look.

On the ground, Michael turns an interesting shade of red. You didn’t know there were quite so many to produce.  

“Come on, Mymy,” you tease, leaning on his greatsword and looking down at him. “Don’t be a sore loser. Best two out of three, at least. That was only one round. You just have to not let me get under your skin.” Beneath your hands you feel the thrumming power of the weapon, a feeling you can define only as Michael in your hands. It’s rather pleasant, all things considered. Or at least, it would be if Michael didn’t look like he was plotting your demise in a hundred ways.

“You’re touching my Angel Blade.” The words are gritted out through his teeth.

Raising an eyebrow, you glance down at your temporary crutch. “So I am,” you respond, bemused.

“That’s—Gabriel, you cannot simply go around touching other angels’ Angel Blades!” He seems indignant on the surface, but there’s something under the surface.

“Other angels know better than to leave them laying around.” Rattling him usually made it easier to read him.

“Gabriel!”

“Michael!”

He stares up at you, eyes wide, chest rising and falling. Slowly you tilt your head, brow furrowing. A grin starts to stretch your lips. Oh, that isn’t the red of rage now, is it? Michael is right about Angel Blades being very personal.

“Look, we’re nestmates. It’s not like I’m some stranger.” Idly you stroke down the grip, then out over the cross-guard, lazy, languid motions that don’t go unnoticed. Finally he seems to be taking a hint. All it took was you polishing his blade.  

“That’s not the point! An Angel’s blade is a very personal creation! A physical manifestation of our Grace.”

“I know what an Angel Blade is. You don’t seem to get so worked up touching mine,” you comment, letting your lower lip jut out in a pout. “And I thought we were close? Close and personal?”

Michael makes a strangled noise, and you let your fingers trail down over the fuller, rubbing in a manner that is decidedly not innocuous. “Aren’t we close enough for a little Angel Blade touching, Michael?”

He leaps to his feet, snatching the sword from your hands, brushing against your gauntlets as he does so. “See! There you go, getting all handsy with my Angel Blade,” you point out, placing a hand on your forehead and striking a pose.  

Michael scowls, clutching the broadsword to his chest like a safety blanket.

“Wow. I’m starting to get jealous of your Angel Blade. You don’t ever hold me tight like that.” As you talk, you start moving back, crouching in your stance, preparing for the next round now that Michael is on his feet. You can’t afford to give him a break to think, not if you want this

“I—what?” Michael blinks, mouth gaping.

“Too late.”

You attack, Michael stupefied by the dawning realization that this isn’t merely a casual sparring session. Still, he manages to turn with the blow, lessening the impact. The force behind it remains enough to send him reeling, barely hanging onto his sword. The snap of his wings as he fights to recover his footing forces you back, prowling as he tries to compose himself.

“For the record, I don’t think it’s overcompensation. I think you’re just a big prick, and that manifests in a very physical form.” Your accompanying smile feels sharp. Perhaps a touch on the harsh side, but he deserves to suffer some.

This time Michael isn’t attacking, waiting for you to be the aggressor. The two of you circle lazily, Michael cautious, you taking your time.

“I bet you were thinking of my hands elsewhere, though, while I was touching your… blade,” you comment offhandedly. It has the desired effect, Michael focused on his rebuttal and not the headbutt that you land on the underside of his chin as you shove his arms up.

He staggers back, getting his blade back down across his body in time to block most of your flurry of blows, but he’s flat-footed, backing away as you follow up with spinning roundhouses and scissor kicks.

“See, my Angel Blade,” you huff with exertion, trying for a sweep of your own that Michael hastily leaps away from, “says I’m a very hands on person. Someone who likes to take her fate into her own hands, someone who doesn’t mind getting down and dirty.”

“Your Angel Blade says you are impatient,” Michael counters. “You rush in, you have no distance from which to contemplate things with a clear head.”

You dive to the side to avoid a sudden reversal, coming up ready. He hadn’t pressed his advantage like he should have. “Given the haphazard way in which you attacked me, I don’t think I’m the one with the fuzzy head. Then again, I work on honing my instincts, in reacting and anticipating, in ready my opponent’s body.”

“On the wrong end of a longer weapon, you’ll never be able to reach your opponent. You are setting yourself up for a defensive game.”

“Only if you never take a chance.”

“An unnecessary risk!” Michael lungs, his blade clipping you above the cuff of your gauntlet. The blow reverberates through your body, making you grit your teeth as you dance away.

“Life is boring if you play by the rules. You get so caught up in what is and isn’t allowed that you forget to look for possibilities right in front of you.” This time you’re the one to close, catching his blade with your hands and putting both of you in a stalemate. If you let go, you’re too close to dodge, but you might be able to reach him first.

“Rules keep us safe, Gabriel. One day you are going to take a chance as you put it, and you’re going to end up destroyed.”

“Maybe that’s all of our fates, sooner or later.” With a grunt you move a step forward, both of you leaning into your respective weapons like an inverted tug-of-war where whoever pushes the hardest wins.

“I refuse to accept that as an inevitability.”

“You refuse to accept a lot of things.” Abruptly you release Michael’s blade and he stumbles forward, letting you duck under his arms and come up chest-to-chest. “Two,” you call, gripping your arms as you lock his arms against your sides, just behind the elbow.

“I could have hurt you!”

“Mmm, but you didn’t,” you point out, body tensing.

“Gabriel, don’t you—”

“Over we go!”

With a twist you bear Michael to the ground, landing on top of him with his arms still locked in yours. “I win,” you say with a grin.

Michael’s lips move but no words come out. His hands flail uselessly behind your back as you watch him, fighting back a laugh.

“Victory is so very sweet,” you say, pressing down on the knee between his legs, half-threat, half-tease. Michael goes still.

“You fight in a very unorthodox manner,” he tells you, eyes flashing in annoyance.  

“What can I say? I like to spice it up,” you comment, leaning down so that your lips hover above his.

“What?”

“Oh come on, in all those books you pretend not to read but we all know about, you can’t say you’ve never encountered someone being pinned to a wall by their crush, can you?” There’s laughter in your words, making them bright and airy.

“That’s—this is completely different!”

“Is it?”

Michael takes too long to formulate a response, so you pull back. “That’s a shame,” you inform him. “Here I was thinking that maybe something might happen.”  

“What—”

You don’t let him finish, hopping to your feet instead.

“I know I said best two out of three, but really Michael. I’ve seen fledglings who have done better.” Wetting your lips, you wonder if he’s finally starting to get it. He hasn’t moved from the ground yet, staring up at you in awe.

“So how about we skip the foreplay and get to the real event?”

The sudden coughing fit that answers your words causes laughter to rise from you. “Best two out of three. For real. Winner gets to do whatever they want with the loser for a day. Oh wait, no. That might make you lose.”

“Gabriel!”

Michael keeps looking back at you with wide, pleading eyes, tweaking the tie you had talked him into. He keeps complaining that if you wanted him collared and leashed there are more pleasant ways to go about it. You insisted on the tie; as fun as the other option is, it’s really not a topic you wish to broach with your father. Besides, he should know by now that you always get what you want. The color of his wings proves that your control over Michael is greater than even Heaven’s pull had once been.

“This seems like a bad idea,” he protests, not for the first time, and definitely not for the last. In the end, however, he’ll participate. Grumbling and fretting are how Michael shows he cares, even if it does occasionally grate on your nerves. The day he does something without some sort of token protest is the day you start to truly worry.

You reach up and retighten the tie, pointedly doing it with more force than you had previously. “Stop fussing.” The tone of your voice dares him to disobey.

Michael grimaces. “This is a cursed invention of humans,” he complains, flirting with the idea of disobedience without fully engaging with it. “Why would they wish to feel like there is a noose around their neck? Who decided that should be part of formal dress? At least cravats had some elegance to them.”

It’s your turn to pull a face. If you left Michael to his own devices, you don’t doubt that there would be some terrible mishmash of clothing from different eras and regions. And you’d only just disposed of the last Miami vice style outfit he had squirreled away. Falling hadn’t improved his fashion sense, sadly.

Rather than indulge him in his whinging, you simply say, “Relax,” and stroke over the back of his hair, noting that the locks are almost down to his collar. He’d chopped them off on an impulse, but since becoming involved with you was trying to grow it out again. Turns out Michael has a bit of a kink when it comes to having his hair pulled, which suits you perfectly. “It’ll be fine,” you reassure him.  

He leans into your touch. “You say that, but I remind you that based on my previous encounters with your father, fine is an exaggeration.” Considering everyone came out of it relatively intact and not too burnt, you think fine is an apt description. You didn’t have to replace any dishes or chairs, which was a fortunate event; no matter how recently you seemed to have acquired belongings, the moment you needed a replacement you could never find the exact item again.

There’s one sure way to distract Michael from his concerns, however, a recent development you have been using and abusing to your advantage. You take one of Michael’s hands and pull it to your stomach. “What do you think, sweetheart? Think your daddy is overreacting? I know I do,” you coo down at the faint bump.

It’s amazing how effective this behavior is at getting Michael to agree with you and stop all forms of whining. Being pregnant is an automatic win to every argument, not that you need it, but it’s amusing to see Michael turn into soft, gooey ball of emotions, unable to help himself. It’s endearing.

“They aren’t capable of that level of thought yet,” Michael grouses, even as he gets to his knees and presses his ear to your stomach. A grin creeps over your face, and you tousle his hair again.

“But they’ll be like daddy, I’m sure, and admit that mommy is always right,” you murmur, fingers trailing down to stroke over his cheek.

Michael grumbles some more, turning to press a kiss to your belly. You’re barely showing, but you want to tell the rest of your family before it gets to the point that it’s obvious it’s not just a few extra of Persephone’s cookies.

Especially because you’d rather no one level a city block upon finding out. The amount of paperwork that humans generate sometimes makes Heaven seem like an efficient machine in comparison, and that isn’t a compliment to either institution.

A timer starts going off, and you clap your hands together. “They’ll be here any minute. Daniel!” There’s a clatter, and your adopted son appears on the spiral staircase, dressed up in black slacks and a gray-green collared shirt that brings out his eyes.

“Yes mom?” You’ve come such a long way to have him call you that, from trying to remove what you thought was just another satanspawn from the earth to calling him your son.   

“Help me set the table, please,” you call as you bustle into the kitchen, hiding a fond smile. He’s a good boy, and often times more mature and dependable than Michael. Not that Michael doesn’t try, but if you want something done without twenty questions Daniel is your man. Not to mention, sometimes Michael still gets caught up in ‘that’s not how Heaven does it.’

While he understands that he’s yours, utterly and completely, he fails to understand that this city is under your dominion as well. The only higher power that rules here is you. Perhaps the difference is that Daniel has always used you as his moral compass, so adjusting to your laws is easy enough.

Michael had spent so long picking fights with you over the slightest issue that sometimes he would still balk at the way you handle problems. He’s learning, though, coming around to your way of view. It’s harder to teach a millennia old angel compared to a boy, but then again Daniel has always been an exceptional child.

That thought makes you pause. He is a young man, now, isn’t he? Not the scrawny, terrified boy you’d met that fateful day. Growing up and going out into the world, ready to make his mark. Your eyes flit to your stomach. Don’t humans have a word for this feeling? Empty nesters? Oddly accurate for Fallen, too. Idly you rub your stomach. Maybe you have grown accustomed to having a little one around.

Daniel enters the kitchen a moment later, moving carefully around you. He already knows about your pregnancy as it’s been impossible to keep Michael’s behavior from giving it away, and Daniel is far more perceptive.

However, it’s made it so that between the two of them, you’ve barely been able to lift anything lighter than a book without them fussing over you. At least Daniel listens to you without arguing when you insist on doing things yourself. You’re pregnant, not an invalid, and barely pregnant at that. If you don’t put your foot down now on the special treatment it’s only going to get significantly worse later. You know Michael. Going overboard is his modus operandi.

“You really think a dinner party with this family is going to go well?” Daniel asks as he pulls out plates and silverware, balancing them with a grace he’s only recently grown into.

“This family? You’re a part of this family, need I remind you,” you gently chide as you pull out the casserole and set it on top of the oven. The top is a light golden brown, almost as good as the picture next to the recipe you’d followed.

“Yep. Which is why I can call it a functional disaster,” Daniel retorts, gliding out of your reach as he moves to the dining table, setting out six place settings and flashing you a cheeky grin. “Things get done, sure, but rarely the way you expect them to or without something nearly catastrophic happening. Not to mention we’re like a bad joke setup.”

“Excuse me young man,” you call, hands on your hips, one eyebrow cocked in a pose you’ve coined as ‘disapproving mother.’ Even without saying anything, Daniel and Michael recognize they’ve done something wrong when you strike it, though depending on his mood, Michael has known to persist.

Turns out someone enjoys a little punishment, but now is not the time to be thinking about that. Definitely not with your father and siblings coming over.

Daniel gestures at Michael, who is standing poised like a statue in front of the front door waiting for the doorbell to ring, giving you a raised eyebrow in return. “Tell me I’m wrong. Satan, his daughter, and three angels—”

“Fallen,” Michael corrects, the word still full of a bitterness you haven’t shaken him out of yet.

You glance at your lover. “Just remember you’re stuck with this family,” you respond, avoiding the topic. Michael is a walking disaster all on his own and everyone knows it, even you. Of course, he’s your disaster and he has made great improvements. It’s a wonder what happens when you listen to others instead of stubbornly defending your position even when it’s glaringly obvious you have no ground to stand on. Only a few years, however, doesn’t quite begin to make-up for millennia of bad behavior.

Falling helped take him down a peg or two. He’s been much better behaved without an entire Heavenly Host watching him, ready to criticize any perceived weaknesses. Plus, you’ve learned ways to keep him leashed and obedient.

“For better or for worse,” Daniel chimes, smile soft. “Though, when your granddad’s the Devil, hard to top that.”

“You know he hates that moniker,” you scold.

“Not like he cares for Grandpa either,” Daniel replies impishly. Teenagers.

Shaking your head, you grab a few cork trivets and toss them towards Daniel. He catches them, laying them out on the table while you bring the casserole over. Another timer goes off. “Grab the mushrooms and put them on a serving platter please,” you say, heading towards the wine rack. While it’s difficult to get an angel drunk on human liquor, it won’t hurt to mellow moods, though you can’t partake.

You grab an old vine Zinfandel for Lucifer, and a sweeter Orange Muscat for Israfel. The latter isn’t really suited for the meal you made, but Israfel prefers sweet wines. Ramiel will drink whatever you put in front of him, and you have whiskey for after dinner, assuming you make it that far without anyone pulling an Angel Blade.

The doorbell rings.

Michael springs into action, smoothing his crisp ironed shirt once before jerking the front door open. The pleasant smile on his face evaporates as he stares into the chest in front of him.

“I forget you’re shorter in this form,” Ramiel rumbles, eyebrows raised in the precursor to an amused smirk.

“Sadly, while I can change my size there’s nothing to be done about your ego,” Michael snaps. Ramiel chuckles, musses Michael’s hair, and enters, pushing Michael aside.

“And here’s my favorite nestmate,” he says, spreading his arms for a hug. You set the wine on the table, letting Ramiel wrap his long arms around you. He pulls back, eyes going wide and eyebrows again shooting up. “Now I understand what the dinner is about. Got a bun in the oven, don’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ramiel. Everything is already out of the oven.” Michael sounds petulant, displeased by the brusque dismissal of your fellow Fallen.

“Oh Michael. Don’t ever change,” Ramiel replies, his condescending tone making your lover bristle.

“Anybody breaks anything other than bread in this house and I will kick your sorry feathers,” you threaten, wagging a finger at Ramiel. “And I don’t want to see any wings popping out. Save it for not in my home.”

Your most troublesome nestmate holds up his hands, feigning innocence. “Well, at least with Michael around you’ve already experienced the level of hand-holding and monitoring a kid requires.”

“I am not a child! Point in fact Gabriel is younger than me,” Michael pipes up.

“So that—”

“Ramiel,” you warn, knowing he was going to make another comment at Michael’s expense. “Is it really that amusing to battle wits with an unarmed opponent?”

“Sporting, no,” Ramiel says, pulling out a chair and sitting down, leaning back on two legs, ignoring your sigh. His grin is wide and unrepentant. “Entertaining? Most definitely.”

“Why did you insist on inviting him again?” Michael demands, sitting across from Ramiel and glaring daggers at your prank-prone nestmate.

“Because we can’t choose our family, and he’s part of it,” you say in a voice so sweet sugar has nothing on it. Both Michael and Ramiel appear to stop breathing, turning to look at you with wary eyes. Sometimes, you think, it’s easier to play nice. Makes them paranoid without you having to go through the effort of concocting a punishment or figuring out what to leverage to make them behave. Let their imaginations run wild thinking of what you might have up your sleeve.

“I see I’ve arrived just in time.” You look up to find Israfel has invited himself in, a much quieter entrance than Ramiel’s. He’s dressed with a kind of casual elegance, a long cream cardigan over a white ensemble that on anyone else would look over the top. On his long frame, however, there’s a dignity and grace that makes your attempt to dress Michael up look cheap. You glance over at your lover. At least he hasn’t clawed the tie off his neck yet, and for the most part it’s still straight.

“Israfel,” you greet, letting him sweep you into a hug. He kisses the top of your head, smiling fondly down at you.

“Hello little sister,” he greets. Things had been strained for a while after your Fall, but much of it had been mended when Israfel showed you his own black wings. If you weren’t in Heaven, then he didn’t want to be either. He still doesn’t approve of everything you do, but that’s one of the beauties of being Fallen; you can disagree without there being a wrong and right party, as there’s not much of a governing oversight on Fallen.

And what there is happens to be headed by your father, allowing you to quite literally get away with murder.

“It must be big news you have to share,” Israfel whispers, amusement twinkling in his eyes. Narrowing your eyes, you scowl at him.

“Why do I even bother?” you ask.

He shrugs. “The most oblivious party here is half-responsible for your current state, so I’m not certain. Perhaps you should sit down before your father arrives; I doubt you want him knowing before the food is at least served.”

Rolling your eyes—you aren’t fooled, you know he’s using it as an excuse to get you off your feet—you pull out the chair next to Michael and sit down.

Immediately you catch Ramiel’s troublesome grin, and groan.

“You know, Michael, humans may not be your favorite creature but even they are aware enough to make sure their pregnant mates have, say, their chair pulled out for them.” He swirls the wine he’d helped himself to around his glass, watching it with faux fascination, as if the conversation were of no importance.

Michael’s face goes white, a retort on his lips when Israfel sinks into a seat, hands folded neatly on the table in front of him, head tilted to the side. “Gabriel might not be quite as she once was, but she is no delicate human either,” he comments, reaching out and pouring himself a glass of wine, the color matching his ensemble well.

Daniel glances around, ensuring everything is out where it should be before he takes a seat as well, his eyes darting eagerly to the food.

“Great. We’re all here. Can we eat now?” Michael’s petulance is one of the few qualities that hasn’t markedly improved since falling, and you can practically hear the collective sigh everyone holds back.

“Still never learned to count, I see.” You don’t bother turning around, knowing full well who it is. Lucifer had this building built for you and you’ve long since stopped expecting him to enter through the front door like a normal visitor. He has a flair for the dramatic, and at least it’s not another Hellhound pup.

Speaking of which, you reach out with your foot, encountering other feet but no hound sneaking around for scraps.

 Michael pastes a smile on, his hands disappearing under the table. “Lucifer,” he greets. Ramiel gives Lucifer a two fingered salute, once again leaning his chair back. Israfel inclines his head to Lucifer, a gentle smile on his face.

“Oh good. You remember my name. I had feared that your memory might have been going along with your inability to count.”

“Dad, be nice,” you warn before gesturing to the open spot. “You are in his house.”

“A house I paid for, had built, and warded,” Lucifer responds, moving fluidly to his seat, seeming to simply pour himself into the chair without having to pull it out from the table. It’s a little disconcerting to watch but reminds you that he isn’t always so human in appearance.

“If you weren’t Gabriel’s father, she wouldn’t need half of these wards,” Michael points out.

“If I weren’t Gabriel’s father, you wouldn’t be here either,” Lucifer retorts. Israfel and Ramiel takes sips of their respective drinks, one resigned, the other amused. Michael opens his mouth to retort and you clear your throat. This could go on all night and you haven’t even gotten to share your news yet.

“So… can we eat before it gets cold?” Daniel asks, looking at you with large eyes. You give him a nod, and he immediately starts piling food on his plate. A curious phenomenon you had observed with teenagers, or at least the three who frequented your house for a long time, is that they eat far more than the average human, and yet never seem to feel full.

Being pregnant seems to be roughly equivalent to being a teenager, at least in terms of food consumption. You always seemed to be running by the stores, picking up groceries and whatever odd combination of food your unborn child seems to crave. One good thing about having Michael for a partner is that he’s unfamiliar with normal human cuisine and thus sees nothing wrong with combinations such as peanut butter on pickles and cheese with ice-cream.

Daniel has learned to be cautious when he hears the fridge open at odd hours lest his appetite be ruined. Watching him now, it seems like that would be an impossible feat, but you have seen it happen,

The table falls blissfully silent while food is served, everyone respecting the sanctity of a good meal—or the fact that you won’t hesitate to kick any of their asses if they don’t.

“Not that I don’t enjoy getting to sit down to a meal with my daughter,” Lucifer is the first to break the silence, “but I doubt you would get the entirety of the nest together just for family dinner. Something you want to share?”

It’s your turn to play innocent. “What, I can’t just enjoy a family meal? The family that Falls together, stays together don’t you know.” No one laughs at your joke, though Ramiel shakes his head in pity

You glance at Michael. Might as well tell him now, then. In the future you’ll have to schedule more family dinners, if only to prevent your nestmates from being suspicious. Being predictable has never been a compliment as far as your concerned. Predictable is only one step away from complacent, and with the kind of enemies you have, you cannot afford either, especially when you’re about to bring a new life into this world.

Michael shakes his head, jabbing with far more force than required at his food. You tilt your head. Michael flicks his gaze to Lucifer. You roll your eyes. Michael’s fork screeches painfully against the plate.

Lucifer clears his throat, gaze resting on the pair of you.

“I’m going to college!” Daniel’s announcement blessedly drags the attention of the group away from your and Michael’s silent argument.

“It’s not that far,” Ramiel comments. “It’s not like this is your last supper.”

Silence greets his comment.

“Oh come on! Last supper? I mean, sure, there’s only six of us total, but I mean we’ve got the King of Hell himself so it’s like—like some sort of hellish version.”

You reach over and pat his arm. “Ramiel, dear, if you have to explain it… it’s not funny.”

“It was better than yours,” he mutters, retreating behind his wine glass.

“Didn’t you know that human?” Michael asks, eyes narrowing as he looks at you.

“‘That human,’ Michael, was one of the most brilliant minds humanity has ever hosted, I’m sure in no small part to his personal muse,” Lucifer comments, smiling at you. “My daughter is quite the inspiring force.”

“But it’s a rather strange painting don’t you think? First of all, it’s not accurate at all to the region or the time period he’s attempting to paint, and then everyone is gathered on one side of the table—that would be terribly awkward and far overcrowded and—”

Daniel clears his throat. “Anyways, since I’m going off to college, we thought this would be, uh, a nice way to send me off.”

“But you’ll be back,” Michael states, brow furrowed, successfully derailed from his rant but now busy trying to apply his brand of logic to Daniel’s statement. Daniel glances at you for help. Subtlety is not Michael’s strong suit. “It’s not like you’re dying or anything. By my understanding humans can live for a century or so now. And you aren’t human, so you’ll be around for longer than that. I mean, you survived Gabriel.”

The smack to Michael’s arm isn’t gentle.

“And what does that mean?” you inquire, head tilted to one side, a dangerous glimmer in your eyes. Michael’s eyes widen, recognizing danger in the faux sweet smile you flash him.

“Nothing, dearest.” You turn back to your food and manage to get a bite in before Michael opens his mouth and sticks in his left foot, his right foot, and all six of his wings.

“Well, not nothing. I mean, you did try to kill him when you first met.”

You can feel your left eye twitch. “So I did,” you state placidly, taking your napkin and dabbing at your lips.

Israfel reaches for the wine and refills his glass. Ramiel reaches for another helping of food. Lucifer leans back in his chair, though unlike Ramiel he keeps all four feet of the chair solidly on the ground, watching with amusement, while Daniel looks between the two of you as if to play referee.

“And the fact that you can go from nearly obliterating him at first meeting to having him reach the age of legal majority by which human laws state he is now responsible for himself is a feat that should be celebrated. He’s—”

You hold up your index finger. “I’m not the only one who tried to kill him.”

“Well, no, of course not. But you were never very good at the whole loyal to Heaven bit and following orders. I mean, there’s a reason you Fell.”

Israfel drains his glass. Ramiel arches an eyebrow. “There’s a reason all of us here have Fallen,” he points out, for once acting like the voice of reason. “At least Gabriel Fell of her own choice. You were the whipped one who couldn’t stand to live without her. So really, who has the greater reason for Falling? Gabriel because of her beliefs? Or you because of love?”

“Thank you, Ramiel,” you say in a brittle tone. He shrugs, and then continues because he’s never known when to stop.

“Look, I know to knock on your door for a reason now because, well, if you weren’t already Fallen, I don’t know, seeing some of the things you two get up to—”

“THANK YOU, RAMIEL.” Your voice is louder this time. Daniel is staring fixedly at his plate, and Michael is gawping next to you.

“When did he—?” your lover demands, turning to you.

“He’s not the only one,” Daniel mumbles. “If brain bleach were a thing…”

Thoroughly scandalized, Michael turns to Daniel. “I would have noticed if you walked in!”

“I’m pretty sure the time I stopped by you were too busy on your knees,” Israfel adds, one elegant finger flicking out to the side. “Your windows aren’t nearly as one-way as you think they are.”

Michael looks apoplectic, his skin turning an interesting shade of mauve. “Excuse me?” he demands, starting to come out of his seat.

“Oh please, sit down. It’s not like those of us with wings haven’t seen all that and more,” Lucifer replies, sounding bored. “Just because you thought it was kinky to hold hands doesn’t mean that the rest of us live under a rock. Good thing you live on earth; I think Hell would make you combust on the spot.”

“I did—holding hands—I know what sex is!”

“I’m glad you know what sex is. I hope for my daughter’s sake you’re at least passable at it.”

It’s your turn to want to sink into your seat. This is not a conversation that you wanted to have happen. Ever.

“More than passable,” Michael snaps. “In fact, if we—”

“Why is this a conversation for a family dinner?” Daniel asks you with desperate eyes, his voice raised to cut across Michael.

“Because this family is literally from Hell?” Ramiel supplies. He winces abruptly, and glares at Israfel who hasn’t appeared to move at all.

“Not from Hell,” Lucifer corrects, taking a bread roll, completely unperturbed by any of the topic changes. “I might rule it, but we are all from Heaven. Except for Daniel, but he’s the least disastrous one here.”

“Dad!” It’s your turn to be shocked, staring at your father in betrayal.

“You picked him,” Lucifer says mildly, gesturing to Michael with his bread roll. He rips it in half, sets half down, and then rips the half into quarters. “Daniel had no choice in the matter. That, my dearest, makes you a bigger disaster than him.”

“And how did I earn disaster?” Israfel asks, blinking at the King of Hell.

“Guilty by association,” Lucifer comments. “You would think after a few millennia some of your tranquility would have rubbed off on this lot, but they seem impervious to it.”

This time he gestures to you, your lover, and Ramiel.

“Ramiel is like a brick wall; oblivious to almost everything,” you point out dryly.

“If I’m a brick wall, I hate to think what that makes Michael,” Ramiel retorts, lips twitching up. Oh. No.

“Don’t you—”

“I mean but at least he knew he was in love with you. What do you call someone who doesn’t notice that for—”

The rest of Ramiel’s sentence is lost as a bread roll smacks him in the middle of his obnoxious gob. The smirk that he’s wearing as he catches the falling bread roll is almost worse, however.

“At least nothing is on fire?” Daniel supplies with a sheepish grin and a shrug.

“Daniel, if you’re considered normal, it is in spite of all of us,” Israfel informs him drolly.

“Normal is overrated. Besides, next to Josie? I think just about anyone could be considered normal,” Daniel responds.

You preemptively reach over and step on Michael’s toes to prevent something uncouth from pouring out of his mouth.

Michael looks affronted, but it’s better than the alternative.

Lucifer yawns, and shakes the empty wine bottle. “So, are we going to get to the elephant in the room or not?”

Everyone else exchanges glances, you hunting for the source of the leak and finding wide-eyed innocence—Daniel—resigned sibling apathy—Israfel—a mixture of amusement and the knowledge that he’s going to get in trouble no matter what he does—Ramiel—and finally panic verging on stubborn refusal—Michael.

“There’s no pachyderm in the room, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Ever predictable, Michael,” Lucifer comments with a sigh, elegant fingers wrapped around the stem of his goblet. That’s not the dishware you had set on the table to begin with, but you’ve been around Lucifer long enough to cease being surprised by his quirks, such as altering his surrounding to suit his aesthetic. The first few times he had visited you had found various pieces of furniture changed, or one time, an entire painting that hadn’t been there before. You kept the latter—Da Vinci holds a special place in your heart, and you were the inspiration behind it.

“How?” you ask.

Lucifer arches one elegant eyebrow. “How? My dear, I have been around since before any of you were even a thought. I’ve observed worlds come into existence and be snuffed out. I’ve even been pregnant before—the signs are not difficult to discern.”

He lifts his glass, liquid filling it from the bottom up, a deep blood red wine. “Not to mention that you forget that the wards on this building keep auras and the like undetectable from those on the outside. I could feel my grandchild the second I entered the building.”

“My child,” Michael corrects, scowling.

“Ours,” you say, reaching for his hand and squeezing it.

“Hopefully they take after their mother and not their father,” Lucifer says, draining his glass. “And you’ve known I’m Gabriel’s father longer than anyone, Michael. You can’t deny I’m part of the family. In fact, I think humans might even consider me your father-in-law.”

The horror on Michael’s face makes you sigh. Back to zero.

“You’re a Fallen now, Michael. There’s no Host to condemn you for dating the ‘Devil’s’ daughter. Hell, I wager there’s a few Fallen who would envy your position.” Lucifer’s eyes flick to Ramiel.

Ramiel clears his throat and sinks down in his chair.

“Alright, enough. Michael, get over it.” Michael turns to you, and you look at him with narrowed eyes.

“I’m Fallen. You’re Fallen. Everyone here has black wings. Pointing fingers is literally like the pot calling the kettle black.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Cookware doesn’t speak.”

You can feel an impending headache.

“On the plus side, since Michael is pure Fallen, he doesn’t require sleep like you.” Lucifer’s smirk is wicked. “So every midnight crying, every two am feeding… I think that’s his by default.”

You perk up. “That’s a very good point father,” you say, pleased to see that no one has appropriated the cutlery for a preemptive strike.

Israfel quirks his lips. “Would a onesie with the word’s Little Angel be considered ironic then?” he wonders.

A laugh, perhaps a tinge hysterical, bubbles from your lips. It spreads, Ramiel starting to chuckle, then Daniel, Lucifer, Israfel’s light lyrical chuckle, and lastly even your mate.

“This isn’t funny,” Michael tries to say while trying to contain his own laughter.

 You shrug. “Matter of perspective, love. I prefer puns to fireballs.”

“Oh don’t be silly,” Lucifer comments. “I want dessert first, and then I might threaten to introduce Michael to a few of the old, extraplanar creatures that go bump in the night. Burnt feathers is a smell that doesn’t come out of your clothes easily.”

Michael’s laughter stops completely. “That was a joke, right?”