#he goes out the next day GLOWING despite waking up way past noon which is not normal for him

[littleplantfreak]

umemiya needs to be tied up and kissed everywhere but his lips. like i'm talking dodging all his kisses until he gets frustrated and it starts to bleed through and intertwine with the neediness glistening in his eyes bc he loves kissing you and he wants to so badly but you're being so mean and ohhhhh it makes him so hard and leaky and his hips twitch every time your thigh brushes against the shaft when you move up his body to kiss his face. ohhHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

i could be sooooo mean to him im such a tease when i really get into it i wanna see him cry and beg dude. I’d have him passing out the first time i let him cum.

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of wildfire relief, @aspiringmehood donated $50 and requested past John/Dean, in which Sam finds out in the bunker era. Thank you for donating!

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When they finally make it to where Michael actually has Dean trapped—a bar, of course a bar, with cheesy neon and cozy wood—Sam feels like he can't catch his breath. There's something snarled and massive and thorned, wrapped around his lungs, his chest full of it. Dean smiles at him, at Castiel, pouring a beer and no shadow at all to his eyes, and Sam drags in air and can't—for a second, physically can't—say a word.

They worked their way through layers and layers of memories. Drowning. Hell. Sam heard Dean laughing, warm and vile, and Castiel glanced at Sam and said, that was in Alastair's workroom, and they didn't look at that memory, like they hadn't looked at so many others. Sam always knew that Dean had been through a lot, just like he'd been through a lot himself. It felt different, hearing it. Seeing it, occasionally, when Cas couldn't tell if the real Dean was trapped in the memory or if it was just an echo, and so they had to check, and the loneliness and the mud and the pain just kept stacking up. A lot Sam had known about; a lot he hadn't. Too much, that he hadn't.

After, when Michael's trapped inside Dean's mind and Dean's shut himself into his room, to rest, Sam goes back out into the bunker and walks past Jack and the refugee hunters trying to clean up the mess, and he grabs Cas, and he says, not quietly enough, "Did you know?"

"Know what?" Cas says.

It's the kitchen. Someone might come in, any moment. Sam stares at Cas for a few seconds and then jerks his head, and Cas follows him, down the halls and down the stairs until they reach—Sam can't help but think of it as 'the Dean Cave.' The den. Armchairs, foosball, cheesy neon. His throat closes up again, seeing the daydream of another life, and he grips the back of the recliner Dean said was his very tightly, and tries to articulate the question better. It's incoherent in the back of his head. Revulsion, horror, anger. Worse than anger.

"You—when we were looking for Dean," Sam starts. Tries to start. Cas is silent, behind him. The neon glows cheerfully. "When we—we saw—"

Jesus. He can't say it.

Cas touches his shoulder and Sam flinches violently. When he turns, Cas's hand is still half-extended, his expression regretful. "I'm sorry, Sam," he says. "I always assumed that you knew."

Sam lets out a breath. That he knew. Like it was just—something that was part of the family, growing up.

Cas searches his face. "It was assumed," he says, more slowly. "That the unusual relationship between you and your brother was a—natural extension of what had happened in Dean's past."

The heat in Sam's chest floods red. He's not aware of swinging until it's too late, and then Cas's head snaps back, and then his hand hurts, and he's dragging in air, desperate, and then he covers his face with both hands. He should say sorry—he almost is sorry—but he's also not, and he's also—out of control, like he hasn't been in years. Years, when he's worked so hard to tamp down reactions like this. The fury's roiling up and he realizes his hands are shaking when Cas touches his forearm, and then his wrist, carefully.

"Sorry," Sam says. Cas pulls at his wrist and Sam drops his hands, taking a deep, chest-expanding breath. Everything still feels too tight.

"No, I am," Cas says. He really looks it, his mouth tight. "I shouldn't have—I know you both keep very secret. I didn't realize Dean had kept more of it a secret from you."

In the face of everything, it's impossible to feel weird that Cas apparently knows about him and Dean. He should've realized that they couldn't really have secrets from heaven. It feels secondary.

The memory. Dad's voice, stern, the words barely audible. Dean had yelped and Sam had frowned, not sure what he was hearing. Michael was obsessed with his own father—maybe he was keeping his vessel trapped with Dad. Sam nodded—Cas's eyes glowed—and then they were there, in a motel room, and it was night, and there was Dean—thirteen maybe—stripped naked and pale in the darkness, sitting in the middle of the bed with his head bowed, and Dad in the bathroom, saying like it was a lecture from any other bit of PT, you know you're supposed to be ready for me, and Dean licked his lips and dashed the back of his hand over his eyes, and he said, sorry, sir, I'll remember next time, and Sam had felt frozen, standing there a foot behind Cas's shoulder, his brain somehow not putting two and two together until Dad came out of the bathroom bare-chested, undoing his belt, saying, I know you will, and there was—on the bedside table—

It turned out that thought-projections couldn't vomit. KY is still the brand Dean buys.

He sits in his recliner. Feels like his legs won't hold him. Cas hovers uncertainly, for some time that passes without Sam realizing, because it feels like an hour or an instant before the door closes, and he's alone, watching the wall, going over it, in his head. He can't help it. All these years, he's been trained—find the evidence, make connections, build a case. Cas took him out of the memory and said not there and didn't sound the least bit surprised, and Sam had barely helped after that, all of him locked into thinking—no. No.

He sleeps in his own room, that night. They usually do, when other people are around. He doesn't expect to actually fall asleep, but he does, and is surprised to find it dreamless. It's after nine o'clock when he finally drags himself out of bed, and when he makes it to the kitchen there's Jack, reading something on a laptop at the kitchen table, and he looks up and smiles at Sam like sunshine, and there, over by the griddle, Dean.

"Morning, sleeping beauty," Dean says, glancing at him. "What, did your alarm not go off or something?"

He's making pancakes. He looks tired. Sam smiles at him and knows it's half-assed, but a lot of shit has been happening and Dean lets him get away with it, just grunting and turning back to the griddle, and Jack says, "I made coffee!" and, christ, okay. Jack's coffee. Sam lets Jack pour him a mug and sits down at the table, too, and lets Jack tell him all about some potential hunt he's found in Jackson Hole, and Dean sits down next to Sam after a few minutes of excited babbling with two plates of pancakes, one of which he slides Sam's way. "Let the guy wake up a little, Jack," Dean says. His knee and hip and elbow brush Sam's side and Sam thinks, again, pointlessly: no. Dean says, "Eat, you look like crap," and Sam says, fulfilling his part, "You're one to talk," but Dean doesn't really smile like he ought to because there's an archangel inside him, and Sam can't—it's too much. He can't hold everything, all at once.

He eats a pancake. He drinks his coffee. He goes for a run, ten miles, the air cold but not cold enough to freeze the roil of feeling into stillness. When he comes back more of the refugees are gone until it's just Maggie, talking with Jack in the library, and Cas is sitting with them like some weird, awkward chaperone. Sam goes to take a shower, and leans his forearms against the wall and his head against his clenched fists while the hot water boils down, and he thinks about the times he'd be sent to stay with Bobby or with Pastor Jim or with Caleb for weeks at a time, and Dad and Dean were alone together, and the thing is that he can't remember. Nothing felt wrong. Maybe more correct to say that nothing felt any more wrong than anything else. When Sam and Dad would argue, Dean would take Dad's side more often than not, and if he didn't then he sat still on the far side of the motel room, and Sam had hated him for that, when he was a teenager. He'd thought, Dad's loyal lapdog. He'd thought, get a life, Dean, meanly, and when they had that last drag-out fight before Sam went to school, Dean had run outside to him, on the road outside that shitty ramshackle house, and he'd said, he doesn't mean it, Sam, and he'd said, don't go, and Sam had pushed away, had started walking right then, and Dean had watched him go, standing alone in the road, the house's dark windows looming behind his back.

A natural extension, Cas said. Sam shuts off the water, dries off. Wraps the towel around his waist and goes to his room, and when he opens the door Dean's sitting on his bed, with a bottle of whiskey on the bedside table, waiting for him.

"Long shower," Dean says.

"Long run," Sam says. The corner of Dean's mouth turns up but it doesn't look happy. It's noon, or near enough, and Sam doesn't even fake an objection when Dean pours them two glasses from the bottle, and when Dean holds out to clink Sam does, slowly.

Dean looks at him, and drains his glass. Sam sips at his. "I asked Cas to take the kids on that hunt Jack was telling us about," Dean says, and refills his drink. "Got the bunker to ourselves."

Sam takes another swallow. He didn't eat enough and whiskey's blooming hot in his stomach.

"You want to talk to me about something, Sam?" Dean says.

A beat. Sam's mouth feels dry, despite the taste of peat.

"Dug through my head, right? To find me? Cas let me know. Guess it took a while." Dean holds his glass in front of his mouth like he's going to drain it again, but then puts it down on the bedside table, and sits forward. His shoulders are hunched, purple bruise-marks under his eyes, and for all that he's springing a trap he just looks—like Sam wants to pull him down to the bed, hold him, sleep for a week tangled together with their skin touching like a promise.

The silence stretches. Dean closes his eyes and looks even more exhausted than before. Sam goes to his wardrobe, tugs on jeans and a t-shirt at least. He holds the wet towel between his hands and can't think. It's still hot and raw inside him, because it's been—a day. Less than a day. How long, he thinks, for Dean, and without his brain attached to his mouth he says, "When," and then wishes immediately to be struck by lightning.

Dean snorts. Sam turns his head and finds Dean shifted around, so his back's to the headboard, one leg extended along Sam's bed. He tips his head back against the wall, eyes still closed. "Suck my dick and I'll tell you," he says, matter of fact, and Sam's stomach flips even if the tone was perfectly even.

"Jesus christ," Sam says, and collapses into his desk chair. He hunches, can't help it—elbows on his knees, his hands in his hair. He keeps seeing it. Dean had been—not scared, but nervous. Like he knew what was coming. The dark, other than the light coming in from the bathroom, and his knees tugged up shyly to hide his nakedness, and how he'd been big-eyed and soft-mouthed and his skin looked—bruiseable. And of course he'd had bruises, all the time—they both had—and Sam had never, never—

"You don't get to be pissed about this, Sam," Dean says. Sam looks up and finds Dean watching him, his eyes tight. "It's nothing to do with you."

"You think—" Sam says, and closes his mouth before he says something stupid. He sits back in the chair and takes a deep breath. Of course Dean thinks that. "I'm pissed," Sam says. "And yeah, I get to be. But—god, Dean, I'm not pissed at you." He pauses, with Dean just looking at him, steady. "Okay, that wasn't true. Yeah, I'm kinda pissed at you. Because you didn't—" He shakes his head. "But I'm pissed at him."

Everything he ever accused Dean of, in his head or out loud. Everything in his head, stained now, like blood seeping through layer after layer of cloth, changing things irrevocably. He thinks, out of nowhere, of Dean's birthday, when he turned twenty and Dad gave him the Impala, and he tossed Dean the keys and Dean whooped and hugged him, tight, and Dad's hand cupped the back of Dean's head, and Sam hadn't thought anything of it, then. He holds Dean's head like that, he thinks. When they're together. When Dean's on top of him, and smiling down in that soft way he'll smile sometimes, and Sam will cup the back of his head tenderly, and bring him down, and kiss him.

Dean's still looking at him. "That first time," Sam says. "You and me. Were you—was it still—"

"What, are you jealous?" Dean says. Laced, just lightly, with acid.

"Just tell me," Sam says, and his voice sounds weird, and Dean's eyes dip, and slant away.

"Yeah," he says.

Sam closes his eyes.

The first time. Sam was eighteen with an acceptance letter in his duffle, and it was June, and Dad had disappeared for a month on some weird hunt. Dean had let him get drunk and he'd been—terrified and happy, nervous and needing, and he'd leaned in laughing against Dean's shoulder, and Dean had thrown his arm around Sam's shoulders and said you're such a lightweight, bitch, and Sam had been so full and glad and it had felt right, to kiss Dean's throat, and when Dean had gasped to lean up and kiss his mouth. Sam still remembers how it felt. Soft and wet, mainly, but with his whole body thrumming like a struck bell. They hadn't fucked for real that night but Dean had gotten him off twice, and Sam had jerked Dean off awkwardly, leaning over him and watching his face, and in the middle of the night he'd said don't freak out, and Dean had been quiet and then curved into his body and said, softly, who's freaking out?, and it had been—okay. Sam thought. It was okay.

If Sam was eighteen, Dean was twenty-two, and if Dean was twenty-two that meant that if Dad had still—if they'd still been—Dean was an adult, and he could've got halfway across the country if he wanted, and he didn't. Now, Dean's forty and Sam's thirty-six, and they've had about fifty lifetimes between here and there, and still Sam feels, in this second, about twelve years old, looking at his big brother and wanting answers.

Dean tongues the inside of his cheek, and says, inexplicably quiet, "Sam, can you—" He works his jaw— "Could you come here. Please."

Dean doesn't say please. Sam gets up, and walks the two steps to the bed, and Dean looks at him with his face drawn and sore and tired, and Sam sits by his hip, and tips forward, and lands with his back twisted painfully with his face in Dean's shoulder. He breathes in Dean's smell, and feels the tug when Dean's hand fists into his t-shirt. It's familiar, from all their years together. His brain flashes to them in bed—to pushing into Dean, his face tucked into Dean's warm shoulder, held safe and close—and then, cruelly, he imagines—their dad—his bulk tucked into the same warm closeness of thighs, Dean holding his shoulders, cupping his head, arching under him just like he does with Sam—

"I was—" Dean starts, while Sam's breathing through the roil of sickness in his gut. He hears Dean swallow. "It doesn't matter, Sammy. I was—it wasn't—" A pause. Sam licks his lips, and goes to sit up, but Dean's hand lands on the back of his head, keeps him in place. His fingers tangle in Sam's hair. He says, again, "It doesn't matter," only of course it does.

"I wish I'd known," Sam says, muffled against Dean's shoulder.

"What good would that have done?" Dean says. It sounds flat, exhausted.

Sam doesn't know. Maybe it would have hurt more. There's so much he doesn't know that's torturing him, now. Things he should've known. Things other people would've hurt Dean with—Azazel, Alastair, Lilith. Ruby. Crowley. Castiel, and all the angels, and Michael, fuck, Michael, crowding up inside Dean, telling him—the same cruelties Lucifer had told Sam, every second, filling him to the brim and saying, always, you're weak, you let this happen, this is your fault, everything is your fault.

They're sick, the questions Sam wants to ask.

"I'm gonna tell you one thing," Dean says. Sam shifts against him and Dean drags his hand down to Sam's neck, warningly tight. "One. And you don't get to ask anything else."

Sam nods, against his neck. Shifts his hips, so he's less cramped, and takes a deep breath.

"It was when you left," Dean says. "He was drunk. I mean, he got drunk a lot, right around then. We were in Colorado, at a cabin, and he got trashed, and he wanted—" A swallow. Dean's thumb drags up Sam's neck, rests soft under his ear. "I wanted it, too. Didn't want to think. It was rough. You know he used to hit me, sometimes? He hit me, during, and I—made fun of him. Said it didn't hurt, wasn't hard enough. Drove him crazy. I'd had a few, too. Parts of it I don't remember. Blacked out, I guess. I guess somewhere in there he broke my nose, and I know I got him, too, because he disappeared for a day and when he came back he had a black eye. He brought back a real ice pack, like a medical-grade one, and he let me take a bath and he patched up my nose, and for dinner we had like honest-to-god steaks, from some restaurant down in Boulder, and he slept in my bed that night, to stay close, and I just kept thinking about you."

Sam's breathing hard. Dean squeezes his neck, comforting.

"I wanted you back," Dean says. "He knew it. We started hunting separate more often, after that. I couldn't stand it but, you know, what choice did I have."

"I wouldn't," Sam says. He pushes up, breaks Dean's hold. His heart feels turned inside-out. Dean's resigned, spent. "Dean, I—"

"You're freaked," Dean says.

"Yeah, no shit," Sam says. He cups Dean's face, feels him warm, hard. Sam's. "But I'm not leaving. Okay? I'm not leaving, I'm never leaving again."

Dean looks at him, and puts his hand on Sam's chest. "I know you won't," he says, after a little while, and Sam takes the chance and leans in and—and kisses him, very softly, just touching their lips together. It's Dean who deepens it, after a few seconds. Selfish, licking and gripping Sam's hair, almost desperate. Sam lets him—of course, he lets him—and it feels like an age before Dean pulls back, his forehead pressed against Sam's and his breath coming fast between them. Sam cups his head, ignoring the nastiness that flickers in his belly. The past doesn't get to ruin this.

"Sam, you know I love you, right?" Dean says.

Sam laughs, shakily. "Yeah, I know that," he says.

They never say it. Not like it's necessary. Dean cards his fingers through Sam's hair and holds on, tight, his body tense. Sam wraps an arm around his shoulders, not knowing what comfort to give.

"Good," is all Dean says. He leans his temple against Sam's and sighs. Their bones sit hard against each other, but Sam doesn't move. He can feel Dean's heartbeat, like a pounding drum.

[antichristsxbox]

Knight in Shining Armor - Part Three

Read part one here!

Read part two here!

Summary: You and Michael begin to plan your wedding but encounter some trouble. Also, warning, this is a little smutty! :)

From the writer: Hey guys! This is my favorite chapter of this fic I’ve posted so far. Please excuse any typos, I proofread it a few times but there’s so much to proofread as this chapter is fairly long; I think I got carried away. Huge shoutout to @jocelynscloset​ for proofreading this for me as well! All likes and reblogs are appreciated + if you liked this fic, feel free to check out my masterlist! :) Update— here’s part one, here’s part two, and here’s part four + here’s my masterlist with more fics!

Word count: 2,329

Darkness looming out your window with a faint orange glow in the background. Grey clouds gather in the sky and high branches on dark trees release dead leaves, blowing across your viewpoint in the dry, warm wind. Hot, but not humid, Stagnant, but not predictable. Every day similar, but not precisely the same as the last. Rising up from your soft pillowcase, silky sheets run past your fingers as you lift them from your body and stand up. Today was the day to start planning the wedding, and you were fairly excited to begin this journey with Michael. More importantly, you were excited for your new life ahead with your soon-to-be husband. 

Quickly dressing in a simple black gown and cast-iron tiara, you make your way to the dining room for breakfast. Always punctual, Michael is sitting at the opposite end of the table. Previously focused on what he was reading, his head perks up and his curls oscillate near his face when he hears the door open. Standing to greet you, he gives you a small hug and kiss on the cheek, then makes his way back to his side of the table. In the middle of the elongated table, there’s fresh fruit, fluffy biscuits, oatmeal, sausage, eggs, yogurt, many different kinds of muffins, and a few more indiscernible items— all at your disposal. You begin to think this enormous spread is excessive for every meal, but who else would eat this food from Hell anyways? Certainly not the already-dead (or undead?) residents. 

“I was just looking over the invitations for our wedding, Dear,” he says, looking up from the cards in his hands. Invitations, you think. This must mean this is going to be a long, drawn-out process. You can’t complain about him wanting to get this right, but at the same time, you are growing more impatient. You were plucked from the relative safety of your tower, dragged to Hell, and now stuck here to wait for a wedding. But, you must remind yourself to respect his wishes and go with the flow of his elaborate wedding plan— it would be the least you could do to thank him for rescuing you. 

“I am certain they look wonderful,” you affirm, sitting down and pouring a cup of coffee. You reach for a blueberry muffin and set it down on your place.

“More importantly, you should choose a dress— we can decorate to revolve around your choice,” he says, looking up and giving a bright, excited smile. You give a small smile back before your attention trails back to your muffin as you slowly peel the paper back, letting it fan out little ridge after little ridge.

“Of course, I’ll choose a dress today,” you say, still looking down at your muffin, now picking at the loose crumbs. 

Realistically, Michael says they could pull off the wedding Saturday or Sunday. Having lost track of time, you learn it is now Monday, looking at the calendar Michael sends to your side of the table via telekinesis. For the remainder of breakfast, you sit and make small talk with Michael. Further planning of the wedding cannot be done without a central theme or color to follow. For the Antichrist, Michael seems pretty sociable and knows how to hold a conversation well. He knows of many things Above that would keep you entertained— sports, politics, and the latest fashion trends in the major cities. Perhaps a dress modeled with a wide skirt and big sleeves, such as what’s popular in London, he insists. Or, taking inspiration from the wide skirts, elaborate lace details, and parasols from Charleston, similar to the styles you grew up with, he says. Perhaps Hell could put together a lacrosse team, as you’ve expressed your enjoyment of the sport to Michael before. Many great athletes are sitting down here doing absolutely nothing. There would be no task too great for Michael to attempt in effort to make you happy. You try to convince him that any dress in your closet would do, yet you have had a traditional, white dress in mind. Asking about further details, you said you would let him handle the specifics and other decorations, as he clearly has good taste— this castle is beautifully decorated and perfect for a wedding, you assure him. The castle would be perfect even with no special preparations, you guarantee. 

Eventually, you excuse yourself from the table so you could go back to your room. As you open the door, an almost sickeningly-sweet smell surrounds you and wafts itself near your face with every step you take— similar to how when too much vanilla extract is added to baked goods, the taste becomes bitter rather than sweet. As you search for the offending foodstuffs, a note is laid flat on your bedside table along with five slices of cake, each a different flavor with a different icing. The note is from Michael reading that you should try these, then let him know which you would like at the wedding reception. Simple enough, you think. Going in line from chocolate, to vanilla, to lemon, to carrot, to red velvet. All are delicious, but red velvet has always been your favorite flavor. You must have experienced a small sugar high from tasting those cakes, because now you’re bone-tired and ready for a nap, despite it being only a little past eleven. Seeing as the details for the wedding have been mostly sorted out at this point, you feel no remorse sinking back into your silky sheets and velvety pillows. 

Waking from your nap, you check the clock to see how much time has passed— it’s only noon, almost time for lunch. Stepping off your bed, you walk towards your mirror and reach for your hairbrush. To your surprise, your once (y/e/c) eyes are now a pale silvery-white color. Perhaps Hell is taking more of a toll on you than you thought. Running the brush through your soft hair, you begin to let your thoughts wander about Michael. How could he deny you in your advances to be intimate? After the wedding, it would happen eventually anyway, so what does it matter? You’re on edge, pent-up, and in need of gratification that only another could provide. Sitting around and playing with yourself has become a daily ritual at this point, but more importantly, it’s boring. There’s only one option left for you to have your much-needed alone time with Michael— seduction. 

One element of seduction is having a somewhat-unattainable nature. When leaving for breakfast, Michael asked if you would join him for lunch. You said yes, but decided to ditch last-minute. Why? Because that makes the next time you see him even more precious. You’re hard to get. Another key to seduction is looking appealing for the one you’re trying to seduce. You begin to brush your hair up and pin it in a loose bun then pull a few of the shorter, loose pieces out to frame your face. Scouring the seemingly endless supply of makeup on your vanity, you find a faint red lip gloss. Having big, glossy lips appealing for most men, you think. Sure— they’re kissable, but they’re also useful for other bedroom activities as well. Picking up a small mascara wand, you open the compact that holds the dark powder and add a drop of water. Mascara helps make your lashes darker and eyes appear more open and awake. Some more face powder is applied to even out your skin, then blush is used to make you seem flustered and ready for Michael.

Time passes slowly when you’re anticipating something, but you manage the rest of the day by reading as well as relieving yourself of your pent-up desire. Many times, you thought of Michael as your hands traveled down to your warm heat. Fingers dipping in and curling up inside, hitting your innermost walls. Your muscles would clench around your fingers, wetness turning into sopping mess. As you became more relaxed each time, you were able to fit two, then three inside. A fourth was attempted and achieved, but the pinky doesn’t do much for you, being so small— you’re able to go harder with only three anyways.

Eventually, it was five o’clock. Michael normally returns to his room between five-fifteen and five-thirty to begin getting ready for dinner at six. Your hands make their way to your back, and you untie the corset you were wearing. Next, the slip you were wearing under your dress goes. In your armoire, you find a red, silky robe with a matching tie. This will do, and it’ll be very easy to take off. 

Peeking out the door to the hallway, you scan the area to make sure nobody is out there. It would be embarrassing to be caught in only a robe by anybody other than Michael. After realizing the coast is clear, you run towards his bedroom and open his door. Quickly shutting it behind you, you walk towards the bed and let your robe drop to the floor. Climbing on his bed, his sheets feel just as soft as yours. A slippery sensation occurs when your freshly-shaved legs glide across the bedding as you spread your legs. Your hand travels down once again and begins rubbing circles on your clit. As your wetness grows, two fingers circle around your entrance until they can be submerged. Small moans escape your mouth when you push your fingers up, hitting a sensitive spot inside. 

Clunk! you hear as the heavy door is pushed. A slightly louder moan ensues, realizing that it is likely Michael at the door. Immediately after the door opens, a loud boom! ensues as Michael quickly closes the door. Slowly, a creaking noise reveals the door just slightly ajar, and you can make out Michael’s voice clearly when he speaks. 

“Darling, I believe you’re in the wrong room.”

Your feet hit the cold floor as you stand up from the bed and walk towards the door. Loose tendrils of hair bounce next to your face, glossy lips are reflective in the candlelight, breasts bounce slightly as you walk. You open the door, grab Michael by the tie and yank him towards you, then shut the door behind the two of you. He would have resisted, but he is so surprised that you would have the audacity to do something like this, it’s stunning. 

“I’m right where I need to be,” you say, taking your hand and resting it on the side of his face before leaning in for a kiss. He abruptly pulls away before you get the chance to make contact. Michael turns to the coat rack in his room and throws you the first thing he could grab. Begrudgingly, you wrap yourself in his long coat then step towards him again. 

Once he turns to face you again, you step closer and hook a leg around his waist, pressing into him as close as possible. A moan slips past your lips as your cunt makes contact with his pants, but your pleasure is cut short as he gently shoves you away and steps back. He is now visibly upset, looking down towards the floor, sighing, then biting his lower lip. 

“I cannot describe how this makes me feel, even after I explained why I was doing what I’m doing,” he says, stepping closer again— Michael is attempting to seem stout and serious. You look up to meet his captivating blue gaze. His lips are pressed together in a firm line. As you make eye contact for a few more seconds, Michael’s brows begin to furrow in confusion rather than anger.

“Step into the light, Dear,” he says, moving towards a table with a tall candlestick. Your eyes are pale, demonic, and possessed. This is not you. 

“Also, the red velvet wins,” you say nonchalantly, crossing your arms over your chest.

“What?” he questions with an even more confused tone than look on his face.

“That cake you left me? To try for the wedding?” you say, a slightly annoyed tone in your voice. 

This is a big ‘aha’ moment for Michael. The imaginary lightbulb has now been lit above his head. 

“Go to your room, please. Do not eat any more of that cake. I will be there soon.” 

Michael then goes to the foot of your bed and collects your robe for you, turns his back as you dress, and sends you off out to the hallway— after checking if anybody else was there, of course. Once you’ve left, Michael looks for his knife with the silver hilt and rubies on the end as well as on the sheath. It’s time for a nice, long father-and-son conversation. 

“Ave Satanas,” Michael says softy, allowing his blade to pierce the skin on his wrist as he drags it up the length of his arm. He repeats this with his other arm, and blood begins to fall from his body to the floor, joining the bloody pentagram he is kneeling above. He closes his eyes focuses on summoning his father, in need of an explanation and guidance as to what is happening. 

“Son,” a raspy, ominous voice says from nowhere, the voice just as prominent in every corner of the room— coming from an all-encompassing, all-powerful force. 

“Father, please, what have you done to my bride? How can I fix it?” Michael pleads, voice breaking mid-question. 

“You must give yourself a chance at producing an heir. Give her what she desires from you and she will return to her original state.” 

Satan’s words lingered in Michael’s head; this is a sad predicament to be in. An emotionless, sex-hungry woman fiending after a well-protected integrity. Determined to keep his original promises to himself, Michael knows what he must do. Standing to clean the blood from his arms and body, he checks the time to see if the officiant has gone to bed yet.

///

Tag list: @langdonsoceaneyes​​ @ms-mead​​ @daydreamingofcody​​ @psychobitchtess​​ @swampwitchh13​​ @ahstmblrupdates​​ @forgivemelucifer​​ @wroteclassicaly​

[c4t1l1n4]

Warm, Cozy, Loved

Gift for @qorktrees​​ from the Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019

Thanks to @scintillating-galaxias​​ for betaing!! 

Here’s the AO3 Link just in case Tumblr butchers this post: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21676567

Hope you like it!!

My gift was a fic, but here’s a little drawing to go along with it!

Warm, Cozy, Loved

Crowley is drunk. 

It is cold, and Crowley is drunk. 

It’s winter in England, which means the weather is absolutely horrible. Less due to the fact that it is winter, and more due to the fact that it’s England, and the weather in England is always absolutely horrible. Except in Tadfield, for the 11 years leading up to the almost end of the world, but that’s not the point. 

The point is Crowley is drunk and it’s cold.

It had been a lovely night. Crowley and Aziraphale spent dinner at the Ritz before heading back to the bookshop for a drink or twelve, moments of shy, romantic tension stretching out between them, almost to the point of breaking. Crowley definitely did not spend most of the evening pointedly not staring at Aziraphale over a glass of wine, across a dimly lit room. He firmly reminds himself that he’s too drunk to think about it. He’s not sure how drunk though. It’s hard to tell how much you’ve had to drink when your glass never stops being full. He stumbles to his car, carelessly throwing a hand over his shoulder to wave goodnight to Aziraphale, who watches from the glowing warmth of the bookshop, peering just as lovestruck through the front windows. But Crowley is too busy fumbling for the keys of his car to notice, only to remember the Bentley doesn’t need keys to run and wrenching the door open. He plops inside, scowling at any snow—when did that start—that dare traps itself inside and tarnish his meticulous upkeep.

He drives off towards his flat with an air of drunken confidence and figures he’s allowed to drive drunk because he’s a demon so he doesn’t have to follow the rules, but mostly because he sternly told the Bentley she wasn’t allowed to crash. He stalls at a traffic light, watching it turn green and then back to red, much to his amusement as the car behind him honks the horn. It’s nearing 2 am, certainly no one is in any big rush, so he fiddles around with the radio as he waits for the light to turn green once more. The same three Queen songs repeat themselves, even as he changes the radio stations and inserts a CD. 

The lights flicker green for a second time, and Crowley snickers as a multitude of beeps resonate from the line of vehicles behind him, so he waits a few more seconds before driving through the intersection, just for the hell of it. Believe it or not, he actually wants to get home too. He can’t wait to park his car somewhere not quite illegal, but definitely in the way, waltz up the stairs, and curl up in his nice warm bed. It’s too late to yell at plants tonight, Crowley supposes as he drapes his jacket neatly over one of the hooks on the wall next to his door. He walks into the main room, takes a deep breath and freezes. Like, literally. He continues to shiver as he shoves off his shoes, nudging them next to the couch and hurries to his bedroom. Why is it so cold in here? Crowley takes off his sunglasses, placing them on the small table next to his bed. He disregards the need for comfier clothes and immediately crawls under the heavy blankets on his bed, curling into a tiny ball in attempts to regain some of the warmth that he’s lost since leaving the bookshop. 

Surely there is something he could do about this, but he can’t quite remember. Something about miracles and this and that and- Crowley rolls over, pulling the covers tighter around himself as his teeth start to chatter. What’s this all about? Wasn’t alcohol suppose to give you a warm and fuzzy feeling? Or maybe he just gets that from being in the book shop. Alcohol. Al… co… hol… Oh! That’s right! Alcohol! He’s drunk! Crowley giggles to himself once more. He promised his angel he’d make it back to his flat safely—which he did thank you very much—and now he’s cold. And he’s cold because it’s winter and it’s England and it’s horribly miserable and other descriptive words his foggy mind can’t think of right now. He supposes he could clear up his mind but that would require a miracle, and he can’t quite remember how to sober himself up. So as Crowley falls asleep that night, his mind settles on the fact that the cold is a lingering after-effect of the harsh, nighttime wind and fails to realize what really is going on: the heating in his flat is broken.

-----

Aziraphale is worried.  It’s noon and Aziraphale is worried. 

It’s cold, it’s noon, and Aziraphale is worried. 

It’s a blustery day and he is waiting on a bench in St. James’s Park and Crowley isn’t here yet. 

Aziraphale is worried. 

It’s not that Crowley’s ever on time, it’s just that he’s never not fashionably late. Now he’s way past fashionably late and he’s just plain old late. Which for Crowley is totally unacceptable because that’s what humans do. Angels are prompt, they’re on time. Humans are late because they’re humans and that’s what humans do. Crowley is a demon, neither on time or mundanely late and never early because that looks desperate. So that fact that it’s now nearing half past noon only means one thing. Crowley is in trouble.

Aziraphale is worried.

He miracles himself over to Crowley’s flat because his nerves are too frayed to take the time to walk there, even though it is a lovely day, if not on the chilly side. He knocks on the door—he’s an angel, he’s polite—and frowns when he doesn’t get a response. But the door is unlocked, purely due to the fact the Aziraphale wants it to be. Crowley is never too careful about locking it, especially after the little stunt they pulled at the end of the apocalypse. But the door swings open without even so much as a squeak of the hinges, and Aziraphale shuts the door behind himself, trapping the cold outside. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice rings out into the empty air and his breath crystallizes in front of him, disappearing after a few seconds. “His apartment usually isn’t this cold,” he mumbles to himself, seeing as he had gotten no other response. He wanders over to the thermostat on the wall on his way to other parts of the flat, peering at the numbers on the tiny screen. He taps the side of the little device and, despite never being good with technology, he knows the numbers on the display do not match the temperature of the room. “Must be broken,” he looks around but isn’t sure how to fix it. “I wish you wouldn’t be like that,” he informs the little panel, and suddenly a blast of warm air is rushing into the room. With a satisfied nod, he continues his way through the flat.

“Crowley?” he calls again, shivering despite the machine’s best attempts to warm the flat back up. The bedroom door shifts open and Aziraphale carefully steps inside, feeling slightly like he doesn’t belong. He comes face to face with Crowley’s sleek, black sheet bed and takes a second to soak up the sight. He smiles gently to himself at Crowley’s sleeping form, legs tangled with the sheets, thick blankets covering every inch of available bed space, and tufts of auburn hair in a messy blaze like a fire, haloing his head. Aziraphale melts, just the tiniest of bits, before turning to leave. Crowley overslept, that’s all. He did sleep through a whole century, you know.

 He’s halfway down the hall, thinking about Crowley as he goes, his companion all the way back from the beginning of time when it hits him. Crowley is a demon. He was the original tempter, a snake in the garden of Eden. It was ridiculously cold in his apartment, for who knows how long. Crowley always complains about the cold, something about... snakes and being cold-blooded. 

Crowley wasn’t moving. 

Aziraphale spins around and hurries back to the bedroom, rushing right up to Crowley and placing a hand on his skin. He was cold. He was absolutely freezing. But he wasn’t shaking. He wasn’t like Aziraphale who shivered as the air still had a bite to it, even though he had fixed the heating unit. 

Crowley wasn’t moving. 

“Crowley.” This was a statement, not a question. A hesitant statement that feared to get no response. And it didn’t. Crowley lay there, just as quiet as ever, even as Aziraphale shakes his shoulder, and pulls back the covers. 

Crowley wasn’t moving.

Aziraphale scooped up his dear friend in his arms, unsure how to feel about the fact that he was still wearing the same clothes from the night before, and marched out into the main room of the flat. “You can have him back when you are warmer.” He sternly scolded the flat. Then, he promptly opened his wings and fled. After all, he wasn’t given the role of ‘Guardian of the Eastern Gate’ for no reason. 

----

The first thing Crowley feels when he wakes up is: warm. Well, he feels a lot of things when he first wakes up. In fact, he’s hit with a wall of warmcozyloved. So it’d be more accurate to say, the first thing Crowley notices when he wakes up is how much warmer it is compared to what he last remembered. 

The second thing he realizes is: he’s not alone. But there are no warning bells going off in his head, and he’s comfortable and he’s hit with another wave of warmcozyloved so he figures he’ll be alright.

The third thing he decides is: he should figure out what exactly is going on. He eventually opens his eyes and a little “ngk” sound escapes his mouth as he tries to sit up and survey his surroundings. He quickly settles back down into his previous position due to the fact that any movement is greeted with a throbbing pain in his head and he has to combat the urge to throw up. He takes a moment to steel himself, but can’t quite work up the nerve to try moving again, so instead, he cautiously opens his eyes. What he is confronted with, is definitely not anything he owned. Crowley was swaddled in a terribly oversized, downright atrociously ugly beige sweater, and sprawled across his lap was an equally atrocious tartan blanket. 

Angel, Crowley’s mind suggests. But when did Aziraphale get here? The last thing he remembered was getting outrageously drunk, as usual, and falling asleep in his bed. But his mind is still foggy and his head is hanging to avoid looking at the overhead light, so he’s sure he’s missed something. It’s not normally this bright in his flat anyway. He briefly recalls being cold and… what time is it? He looks down at his watch, or where his watch should be, then remembers, it’s probably still on his nightstand. 

Crowley blindly reaches out in the direction that his nightstand would be in, and freezes when his hand hits a wall of feathers instead. He glances over in surprise and then carefully lifts his head to survey his surroundings. This is not his flat. Actually, he can’t really tell, because he is cocooned in a set of white wings. Angel, His mind supplies for a second time.

“Angel?” Crowley grimaces out and immediately regrets the way it leaves his head spinning so he forgets to listen for a response. 

There’s movement—the world shifts the slightest bit on its axis around him—and “Oh, Crowley! You had me so worried.” It’s only when Aziraphale’s voice chimes very close to his right ear that his brain puts the pieces together, and Crowley realizes he’s sitting in someone else’s lap. “How are you feeling?”

“Ow,” comes Crowley’s graceful response, screwing his eyes shut.

“Oh, you forgot how to sober up again, didn’t you?” Aziraphale sympathizes and reaches over to run a hand through Crowley’s hair. Just like that, his headache died down a considerable amount, and Crowley could think again. 

“Thanks.”

“Anytime, dear.” 

A moment of silence lingers in the air, ways to restart the conversation dangling in front of them, and Aziraphale almost snatched one, but Crowley lays his head back on Aziraphale’s shoulder, so the silence persists. Aziraphale doesn’t point out the fact that he had Crowley cradled in his soft, white wings as a way to trap warmth inside their little cocoon in front of the flickering fireplace in the bookshop, but Crowley hasn’t said anything either. Maybe he just hasn’t noticed yet. He had just recovered from being hungover. Besides, Aziraphale enjoys having the one person he loves so much curled up in his wings. It gives him a sense of control and calms his protective instincts. 

“What happened?” Crowley asks, his mind still foggy as he tries to recall the events of the night before.

“I think your heating unit broke.” 

Crowley groans in annoyance. 

“I think I fixed it,” Aziraphale admit, but is unsure. “It was freezing in there when I came to see about lunch, so who knows how long you had been suffering with no heat.”

“You came to see about lunch?” Crowley furrows his eyebrows in confusion.

“We were going to meet in St. James Park, and inevitably end up somewhere to get you a hot cup of tea—you do always complain about the winter weather and such—and we were gonna—”

“What time is it!?” Crowley exclaims, cutting Aziraphale off, jerking his head up to stare at the angel in disbelief. 

“Oh, I’m not sure now.” Aziraphale turns his head and peeked outside the warmcozyloved wing cocoon to look. “Well, it is dark outside.”

“Dark outside?” Crowley splutters. “I slept all the way through dinner? I’m sorry Angel, even when I forget to sober up, I wake up in time for lunch.”

“I think you were hypothermic, with being a snake and all. I mean, Crowley, you were stone cold.”

“Were cold!? I’m still cold,” Crowley half-heartedly grumbles under his breath, pulling the atrociously warm sweater tighter around himself. A sweater knitted that chunky has no right to be as warmcozyloved and reminiscent of his angel as it is. Crowley pouts, just the tiniest of bits, but a small smile creeps its way onto his face as Aziraphale fusses over him. 

“My dear boy, you should have said something earlier,” Aziraphale admonishes gently. 

A moment of silence passes. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” Crowley admits, in a very small voice. He suddenly realizes that he doesn’t have his sunglasses to hide behind and felt very exposed, so he drops the angel’s gaze and looks elsewhere. 

“I know dear. I feel better just sitting like this.” Aziraphale admits, and his wings sag, just a little bit. He’s exhausted, worn out from worrying about Crowley for so long. And everything for so long. The apocalypse is over now, surely they can stop holding their breath. “Even though we prevented Armageddon, we’re still on our own side, aren’t we?”

Crowley lifts his gaze to Aziraphale, who stares back at him hesitantly, his wings drooping a little more as he second-guessed his words. 

“Of course, Angel. You and me against the world.”

“Well, that’s good then. I just like to know you're safe. I want you to know that I care about you.”

“Angel, you’re important to me too.” Crowley tilts his head and studies Aziraphale, who averts his gaze, flushing slightly red. “Are you saying what I think you are?” A sly smile grows on Crowley’s face and he shifts closer, slinging his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders. 

“I don’t know whatever you could be implying.” Aziraphale shoots back, but this is familiar territory, and he is growing more confident.

“I think you do.” And without further prompting, Aziraphale pulls Crowley close, one hand shifting to wind around the demon’s back as they kissed. “I love you, angel,” Crowley says as they pull away.

“You never cease to amaze me,” Aziraphale says in lew of a proper response, but another wave of warmcozyloved said everything for him. “You wily old thing. I bet, in all these years, you never thought the moment we confess our love for each other, you’d be wearing such an atrocious sweater,” Aziraphale says mischievously, now that he knows the feelings are mutual.

“Oi, watch it,” Crowley teased back, his arms casually resting on either side of Aziraphale’s head.  “This is my partner’s atrocious sweater, and I happen to like it, thank you very much.”

They looked at each other for a second longer before a grin broke out on Crowley’s face, and both of them broke out into quiet laughter. Once their giggles died down, they took a moment to catch their breath and Crowley used the moment to kiss Aziraphale again. He then curled back up into Aziraphale, laying his head on his shoulder and securing himself to his side. Silence lingered in the air, but everything was alright now.

Crowley was no longer cold and Aziraphale was no longer worried.

A consistent pulse of warmcozyloved radiated from both of them, filling the bookshop and lulling them to sleep.