thinking about how michael & lucifer are parallels to dean & sam and the sexual symbolism in the fact that every old painting of michael casting lucifer from heaven shows michael fully dressed, pinning a fully naked lucifer into the ground, getting ready to penetrate him with a sword or lance
thinking about michael using dean's body as a vessel, raping sam and calling him "luci" while he does it, brutal and violent, trying to recreate the way Lucifer looked after his fall, covered in filth and begging for mercy while michael publically raped him, for all of heaven to witness
thinking about michael brutalizing sam to show dean that they're not so different, that he understands, because he too had a brother who was pure and beautiful and who had to be punished (beaten, locked up, violated) for his betrayal (for leaving, for disobedience, for letting himself be corrupted).
warnings! mdni! smut. age gap (kinda obvious his ass is old af). fingering. fem!reader. innocent!reader. dom!michael. unprotected p in v (wrap the sausage yall).
word count! 1.6k
you knew who he was.
or rather how he was.
all the stories about the almighty archangel michael, the lord’s right hand, and the one to cast out lucifer from heaven weren’t as glorious as one would’ve thought.
michael was an evil being. rotten to his core and even worse than the devil himself. yet, you felt a strange pull towards him. he was attracting you like a moth to a flame, luring you with his sweet words and charming smile. you were never good with guys but this was probably the worst choice you’ve ever made.
or the best one — it depends on what’s preferred to be believed.
because even though he was a sadist, taking pleasure in torturing those who stood in his way and despising humanity with every single bone in his vessel’s body, he would never do any harm to his sweet girl.
you were his pretty little thing, always there when needed with that adorable rosy blush on your cheeks and a smile that could rip men’s hearts out of their chests.
he hummed lowly, his fingers tangled in your hair as he deepened the kiss, tasting the cherry gloss on your lips. he swept his tongue over your bottom lip, seeking entrance that you immediately granted him. he smirked as he delved in, deepening the kiss. a surge of male satisfaction ran through his body as he felt your little sounds slipping out, swallowed by the fervour of his mouth crashing against yours.
you ran your fingers over his black vest so that ultimately you could rest them on the back of his neck.
michael pulled away, cupping your cheek with his right hand and gently stroking it with his thumb. meanwhile, his left hand was firmly placed on your thigh, as he made sure to squeeze it in a way that would leave dark marks of his fingerprints on your delicate skin. he was possessive beyond belief and if you weren’t covered in love bites and bruises, he made sure that there was something that would be a clear sign of his ownership over you.
“so pretty,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, and a dark smirk plastered onto his face. Your breath hitched, and that only pushed him further.
slowly, his hand started itching higher and higher, slipping underneath your skirt and tugging on your panties. you widened your eyes, and your grip on his shoulders only intensified as he chuckled lowly. “don’t worry my sweet rosie. it’ll be fun,” and even though there was a dark edge to his voice, you nodded, swallowing a lump that formed in your throat.
he slipped his fingers underneath the waistband of your panties, slowly moving them towards your mound. at the same time, he kept your attention on him, placing small kisses on your lips not letting you deepen any of them. he was taunting you and just relished that fact.
when finally his fingers moved between your folds, he groaned loudly, gathering your wetness onto his digits. “so wet. my darling, all for me,” his voice rumbled, making you shiver and squirm slightly in his arms. he only smirked even more, starting to draw tight circles on your clit, causing more of those sweet whimpers to slip past your plush lips. “exactly. just like that. you like it, sweetheart?” he asked, already knowing the answer as he rubbed the sensitive skin behind your ear with his nose.
then, he slowly slipped his finger inside your core, practically growling as your slick walls enveloped it. you gasped loudly, arching into his hand as you felt him slowly moving, getting familiar with your depths that he had yet to discover.
“mikey—” you whimpered, but he quickly silenced you with a firm thrust of his finger.
“now, sweetheart. you know better,” he warned, giving you a stern look.
“michael,” you quickly corrected yourself, knowing he appreciated his full name more, as the nickname was reserved for other moments. he smiled and nodded.
“good girl,” and with that, he continued fingering you, adding a second digit to the mix.
he just loved the symphony of your needy sounds and it only made him more eager, his pants now straining against the growing bulge. he ground his hips against your thigh, showing how needy he was getting. “feel that? you feel what you’re doing to me, my love?” he hummed, picking up the pace of his fingers.
your gummy walls eagerly clutched on his fingers, relishing in the way he was sliding them in and out of your slick pussy. as soon as he felt you teetering on the edge, he pulled them out, leaving you aching and empty. you huffed and looked at him with a pout, the neediness he inflected in you visible in your doe-eyed gaze. he chuckled, staring at you with that unexplainable dominance as he licked his fingers clean, absolutely loving the way your juices tasted on his tongue.
“delicious,” he muttered, almost as if he were just saying it to himself. but the compliment kept you going as you fisted his black vest.
“michael, please,” a desperate whine echoed through bedroom walls.
“already begging? my my, aren’t you a little eager thing,” there it was — another dark chuckle.
he stood up from the bed, which, at first, surprised you. confused, you sat up, still feeling the effects of his touch and wondering what you were supposed to do with the pressure coiled tight in your belly. but the moment you saw him shedding his clothes and moving to unbuckle his belt, you practically started salivating. his defined abs and chest were like eye candy to you, and your fingers just itched to touch him already. he could sense the desperation buzzing off of you and it only fed his ego.
“don’t worry, my sweet girl. i’ll take care of you,” and you didn’t doubt it for a second.
the moment his cock sprung free from his boxer briefs, you couldn’t help but widen your eyes. the veins were throbbing prominently, and the precum, already glistening, leaked from the reddened tip. your throat went dry as he stroked himself slowly, but firmly, low groans escaping from the depths of his throat. god, you never knew how badly you needed him inside of you, until now.
then, michael crawled on the bed, making his way towards you. he ripped your clothes off and yanked your panties down, exposing your puffy folds to the chill air in the room. you shivered again, lying down on the pillows and spreading your legs. he smiled, as he kneeled between your thighs, admiring your weeping rosy cunt.
“so beautiful. my pretty girl,” he hummed, aligning his tip with your entrance.
and then, you felt as if you were being split apart as he dived in with a guttural groan, feeling your tight walls accommodate his length. he bottomed out and looked up at you, already panting heavily, his grip on your hip borderline painful.
“easy, sweetheart. easy. just take it,” he instructed, letting you get used to the new sensation of being stuffed to the brim. you whimpered and nodded, feeling his thumb gently brushing over your cheek. “better now?” he asked, and when you gave him a nod of your head, he tapped on your bottom lip. “use your words, darling. just like i taught you to.”
“yes. better,” you squeaked out, nodding once again. he smiled, his fangs-like teeth shining in the dimmed light of the lamp near your bed.
“good girl. such a good little girl,” he praised and then started moving — slowly at first.
but soon, he picked up the pace, thrusting into you with a fervour. an obscene sound of skin slapping against skin and your pussy squelching greedily filled the room, alongside your whimpers, moans and groans.
“fuck, just like that,” he panted, sliding in and out of you in a steady rhythm.
the bed was creaking with every single movement, the headboard obnoxiously hitting the wall, and at this point, you didn’t know what you were supposed to hold on to. ultimately, you decided to grip his back for some support, clawing at his skin with your nails, leaving crimson red marks that were disappearing as soon as you made them — damned archangel and his powers.
then, you felt the same tingling sensation pooling in your lower belly. he could feel your walls clamping down on his fat cock more eagerly, and he knew that you were close — so was he.
“you’re doing so well, sweetheart. so good. come for me, would you?” he asked, so sweetly yet you could just feel the dark undertones in his voice.
still, you obeyed and soon were sent hurling over the edge as the pleasure consumed you. with a scream, you came all over his dick, your juices gushing out of your spent cunt. with a final growl, he stilled his movements and spilt his seed in warm spurts that painted your trembling walls white.
he collapsed on top of you with a sigh, letting everything sink in as you relished the newly met feeling. slowly, he pulled out of you, watching his pearly essence spill out of your used pussy, your folds now puffy and reddened, yet painted so beautifully in what was his.
he smirked and leaned forward, placing a kiss on your lips.
“you did so well. i’m proud of you, my sweet little rosie,” he murmured, stroking your hair with such gentleness.
deep inside, he could feel the satisfaction growing. finally, he had claimed you completely, as you lay there stuffed full of his cum.
Summary: After Dean surrenders to Michael to save you and Sam, you search desperately for a way to bring him home. But when Michael takes a personal interest in Dean’s most precious memories – you – the fragile agreement shatters. Finding you vulnerable, Michael comes to collect what he now desires.
Warnings: Non-consensual sexual encounters, dubcon, captivity, emotional and physical manipulation, threat of violence, possession, angst, dark themes.
Also any mistakes are my own, please do not repost my work anywhere however reblogs are fine and welcome :)
If you love it, please comment and/or reblog. Let me know your thoughts! :)
**IF YOU DON’T LIKE IT DON’T READ IT**
The stale air inside Baby felt thick enough to choke on. You drummed restless fingers against the worn leather of the passenger seat, your gaze locked on the dusty window of the rundown corner store where Sam had vanished ten minutes ago. Just a quick interview, he’d said, with the night clerk who might have seen something weird. Weird. That covered a lot of ground these days. Mostly, it meant things that could lead back to Dean. Back to Michael.
The memory was a physical pain behind your ribs: Dean’s green eyes wide with terror and desperate love, locking onto yours across the chaotic din of the warehouse. His lips forming the silent words that still echoed in your nightmares: I love you. I’m sorry.
Then Sam’s iron grip hauling you backward, away from the blinding light and the chilling presence flooding Dean’s familiar form. Sam’s voice, raw and urgent: “He’s gone! Run!” And you had run. Leaving Dean behind.
Weeks. Weeks of dusty lore books, greasy diner coffee, sleepless nights in cheap motels, and the gnawing void where Dean should be. Sam carried the weight like Atlas, his jaw perpetually clenched, eyes shadowed with guilt and determination. You both knew the statistics. The odds. But giving up wasn’t an option. Not while Dean was still in there, somewhere, screaming.
Inside his own head, Dean raged. It was a constant, muffled roar now, background noise to Michael’s divine agenda. But recently… recently the roar had become a focused shriek of pure, unadulterated panic.
Stop! Get out of there! That’s private! That’s HER!
Michael paused his perusal of Dean’s memories – specifically, the deeply intimate cache devoted entirely to you. The warmth of shared laughter in the Impala’s front seat, the taste of cheap beer mixed with the unique flavor of your skin, the feeling of your body yielding trustingly against his in the quiet darkness of countless safehouses. Memories so precious Dean had locked them away behind layers of hunter’s grit and Winchester stubbornness. Or so he thought.
Our agreement was simple, Dean, Michael’s voice resonated within their shared skull, cold and utterly devoid of empathy. Your cooperation for their safety. I never stipulated limitations on my… curiosity.
Curiosity? Dean’s mental voice cracked. That’s not curiosity! Leave her alone! She’s off-limits! That was the DEAL!
Michael’s derisive scoff vibrated through their bones. Deals are renegotiated when circumstances change. And my circumstances have changed. I find myself… intrigued. This human has occupied your thoughts with remarkable persistence. An image flashed – your face flushed with pleasure beneath Dean’s gaze. Such devotion is… rare. And potentially useful. Or entertaining. His focus intensified, dissecting Dean’s recollections of your vulnerability, your trust. Yes. I believe I want her.
NO! Dean’s scream was a silent explosion, battering uselessly against the archangel’s will. MICHAEL, DON’T YOU TOUCH HER! SAM! SAM HELP HER! PLEASE!
The knock on the Impala’s window was sharp, unexpected. You jumped, your heart hammering against your ribs. Adrenaline flooded your system, hand instinctively going for the demon-killing knife tucked into your boot.
And then you saw him.
Dean.
Leaning down, peering through the glass. He looked… normal. Tired, maybe thinner than before, a faint bruise along his jawline, but Dean. The worn leather jacket, the faded Led Zeppelin t-shirt, the messy hair. Your breath hitched painfully in your throat. For one dizzying second, pure, unadulterated hope obliterated weeks of despair.
“Dean?” Your voice was a fragile whisper against the glass.
He offered a small, tentative smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hey.” His voice. Oh God, his voice. Rough around the edges, achingly familiar.
Tears blurred your vision, but caution screamed louder than relief. Sam was still inside. This was too easy. Too perfect. After weeks of silence and horror… he just walks up?
“Prove it,” you demanded, voice trembling but firm. “Prove it’s really you.”
He didn’t hesitate. He held up his right hand, palm facing you. “Remember Salt Lake City? That dive bar off I-80? You dared me to ask that biker chick to dance?” A faint, genuine-looking blush crept up his neck. “She had arms bigger than my thighs. You laughed so hard you snorted your beer through your nose.” His smile softened, became more familiar, more Dean. “Never let me live that down.”
Your own breath stuttered out in a half-sob, half-laugh. Only Dean knew that story in such mortifying detail. You’d sworn each other to secrecy. The lock clicked as you fumbled it open, scrambling out of the car before you even registered moving. You threw yourself at him.
He caught you, his arms wrapping around you with familiar strength, pulling you tight against his chest. You buried your face in the leather of his jacket, inhaling the scent of engine grease, gunpowder, cheap soap, and something uniquely Dean beneath it all. It was him. It had to be him.
“Dean,” you choked out, clinging to him like driftwood in a storm. “You came back. How? Are you okay? Where’s Michael?”
He held you tightly for a heartbeat longer, his chin resting on top of your head. Then, almost imperceptibly at first, his embrace changed. It became less like shelter and more like containment. His grip tightened just shy of painful. You felt him pull back slightly.
You lifted your tear-streaked face to look at him. He was smiling down at you, but it was different now. Cooler. Calculating. The warmth that had flickered briefly was gone, replaced by an unnerving intensity.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek with deceptive gentleness. His gaze held yours.
And his eyes flickered electric blue.
Time stopped.
Ice water drenched your veins. Hope shattered into a thousand shards of terror.
LEAVE HER ALONE! GET OFF HER! SAM! SAM! WHERE ARE YOU?! HELP HER! Dean’s voice screamed inside his own head, a frantic prisoner beating against celestial bars.
You gasped, trying to wrench yourself backward, panic lending you desperate strength. “No! Let go!”
Michael – wearing Dean’s face, using Dean’s voice – chuckled, a low, dangerous sound that vibrated through his stolen chest and into yours. He effortlessly countered your struggles, one arm locking like steel around your waist, pulling you flush against him again. He leaned down until his lips brushed the shell of your ear, his breath unnervingly warm.
“Shhh,” he soothed, the word a velvet threat. “Struggling is pointless.” His grip tightened almost painfully on your hip. He turned his head slightly, his blue eyes scanning the street beyond your shoulder towards the store entrance. A predatory stillness settled over him. “Ah,” he breathed.
Following his gaze, your heart plummeted further. Sam was pushing open the store door, a paper bag clutched in one hand, his expression instantly shifting from mild concern to alarm as he saw you locked in Dean/Michael’s arms.
SAM! RUN! HE’S GOT HER! DO SOMETHING! Dean’s mental shrieks were a continuous loop of agony.
Sam dropped the bag and broke into a sprint across the parking lot, his hand already reaching inside his jacket for his gun. “Hey! Let her go!” His voice cut through the tense air.
Michael turned his head back to you, his Dean-smile returning, but now it was a horrifying mockery filled with cruel amusement and absolute power. His blue eyes pinned you, holding your terrified gaze as effectively as his physical grip.
“Come with me quietly,” he whispered, the command soft but absolute, “if you want Sam Winchester to keep breathing.”
The world narrowed to those chilling blue eyes and Sam’s pounding footsteps drawing closer. Every instinct screamed to fight, to scream for Sam to shoot, to do anything. But Michael wasn't bluffing. You saw it in the ancient, merciless certainty in his gaze. He would obliterate Sam without a second thought.
Your eyes flicked desperately to Sam’s frantic face as he closed the distance, his own eyes wide with dawning horror and understanding. You saw the moment he realized who he was truly facing. You saw his fear – not for himself, but for you.
I’m sorry, you thought, pouring every ounce of apology and love into the look you gave him. I love you both.
Then you locked eyes with the archangel wearing your lover’s face and gave a tiny, terrified nod.
Michael’s smile widened into something triumphant and utterly inhuman.
The world dissolved into blinding white light and a sound like tearing fabric.
The scent of stale asphalt and Sam’s panicked shout vanished.
The last thing you felt was the crushing grip of impossible strength and the sensation of falling through nothingness.
Silence.
Darkness.
And Dean’s agonized scream echoing endlessly in a prison only Michael could hear.
The world snapped back into focus with a stomach-lurching jolt. Solid ground beneath your feet. Air thick with the sterile scent of expensive cleaning products and something else… ozone and power. Blinking, you took in your surroundings: a penthouse apartment, all sleek lines, floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a glittering, unfamiliar city skyline far below. Disorientation warred with terror.
Then you looked down.
A choked gasp escaped you. Your familiar flannel and jeans were gone. Instead, you wore the set. Black lace, intricate and scandalously sheer. The matching robe, mostly transparent, hung open. Garters clipped to sheer stockings. You remembered buying it, years ago, for Dean. The hesitant pride in his eyes, the way his calloused hands had trembled slightly unclipping the straps… The memory was a knife twisting in your gut.
No. Frantically, you tried to yank the flimsy robe closed, covering yourself, but it was useless against the sheer exposure. It felt like a sick joke, a violation layered upon violation.
"Don’t cover yourself."
The voice, Dean’s voice, came from behind you. Low, commanding, devoid of warmth. You spun around. He – Michael – lounged on a pristine white couch, Dean’s powerful frame looking both comfortable and unnervingly predatory. One leg crossed casually over the other, his arms stretched along the back cushions. He wore Dean’s face, a fitted tuxedo – but the eyes… Dean’s eyes had always held warmth for you, a fierce protectiveness mixed with affection and sometimes a playful heat. These eyes held only a dark, appraising lust that made your skin crawl. He was watching you, studying your reaction to the lingerie, to the situation, like a collector admiring a newly acquired, unwilling piece. And he was enjoying it.
His eyes flickered deliberately – vibrant, unnatural blue – a silent reminder of who held the power. His power. His dominion.
Fear warred with defiance. You needed to survive. For Dean, for Sam. You needed to buy time. You backed away from him, towards a minimalist armchair, sinking into it gingerly, trying to put distance and furniture between you without appearing overtly rejecting.
He watched your retreat, a slow smirk spreading across Dean’s lips. It was wrong, alien. He didn’t speak. He simply looked at you, his gaze raking over the lace barely concealing your breasts, down your torso, lingering at the apex of your thighs revealed by the robe’s gaping front.
Suddenly, heat bloomed across your skin. Not the warmth of embarrassment, but distinct, localized points of intense sensation. Like phantom lips brushing the sensitive curve of your neck. Like fingertips tracing the outline of your nipple through the flimsy lace, circling, teasing. You gasped, arching slightly despite yourself as a jolt of unwanted pleasure shot through you.
Stop it! STOP IT! Dean’s voice screamed uselessly inside his own skull.
The phantom touch intensified. It dipped lower, a slow, deliberate trail down your belly. Then, shockingly intimate pressure bloomed between your legs. Not invasive, yet. Just a maddening, lazy circling right over your clit, mimicking a skilled touch you knew intimately well. A low, whimpering moan tore from your throat before you could stifle it. It felt… agonizingly good. A direct assault on your nerves, bypassing your mind and exploiting your body’s traitorous responses. Tears of shame pricked your eyes as warmth pooled low in your belly, a purely physical reaction you couldn't control.
Michael’s smirk widened into a satisfied grin. He stood up smoothly, unfolding Dean’s powerful frame from the couch. He moved towards you with predatory grace, circling the chair where you sat frozen, trembling under the relentless assault of his grace. His fingertips brushed your shoulders – Dean’s familiar callouses scraping lightly – before he bent down, placing a heavy, possessive kiss on the side of your neck. You flinched violently.
It’s not him. It’s NOT him, you chanted internally, trying to anchor yourself against the sensory overload – Dean’s scent, Dean’s touch, warped by this monstrous presence.
He must have sensed the turmoil. His lips moved to your ear, his breath hot against your skin as he whispered in Dean’s voice, a cruel parody of intimacy: "You can either close your eyes, pretend I’m him… and let yourself enjoy it," his other hand trailed down your arm, making you shudder, "Or you can keep them wide open, know it’s me… and know you still can’t stop me." His teeth grazed your earlobe. "Either way… I will be enjoying you."
The casual ownership in his tone made you jump. Inside the shared body, Dean roared, a soundless explosion of rage and despair.
NO! The denial wasn't just mental; it burst from your lips as you shoved against his chest with all your strength. "NO! You are not Dean! You stole him! He’s locked away inside you because of you! I belong to him, not you! You don't get to touch me!" The words tumbled out fueled by terror and a desperate surge of loyalty.
Michael straightened up, looking down at you. He sighed, a theatrical sound of disappointment that twisted Dean’s features into something cold and terrifying. "Oh well," he murmured, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. "Playtime’s over then."
His hand shot out faster than you could blink. Not a slap. A vise grip around your throat.
You choked, clawing at his wrist, panic obliterating all thought as he hauled you bodily out of the chair. The sheer robe offered no protection; it felt like paper against his strength. He slammed you back against the cold glass of the enormous window overlooking the city lights far below. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs.
"You fight," he observed, his blue eyes blazing inches from yours as he pinned you effortlessly with one hand at your throat, the other ripping open the front of the robe completely, exposing the lace beneath. "It’s amusing." His gaze dropped pointedly between your legs. "But look at you."
He leaned closer, his voice a rough whisper thick with mockery and dark desire. "Soaking through this pretty lace. For me? Or for him?" He ground his hips against yours – Dean’s hard arousal pressing against you through his jeans – while simultaneously, his grace flared again.
The phantom circling on your clit returned instantly, more insistent this time, joined by invisible fingers pinching and rolling your nipples into tight peaks through the lace bra. A strangled cry escaped your constricted throat – half terror, half unwanted, overwhelming sensation. Your body trembled violently, caught between struggling against his physical grip and arching into the torturous pleasure his grace inflicted.
DEAN! FIGHT HIM! PLEASE! You screamed it internally, hoping against hope.
Dean fought. He raged against the walls of his own mind, a hurricane of fury and helplessness battering against Michael’s divine will. He threw every memory of you – every laugh, every touch, every whispered promise – like shards of glass at the archangel’s consciousness. SHE’S MINE! LET HER GO!
Michael merely chuckled against your skin, feeling Dean's internal storm like a buzzing fly. "He’s loud," he breathed against your neck before biting down hard enough to bruise. "Screaming like a child." He used his grip on your throat to tilt your head back further, exposing your neck for another bruising kiss that felt like possession.
With terrifying ease, he released your throat only to grab both your wrists in one large hand, pinning them above your head against the cold glass. His other hand yanked roughly at the delicate lace panties. They tore like tissue paper.
"See?" he growled, his free hand sliding down your trembling belly, fingers parting slick folds with deliberate roughness despite the continued torturous stimulation of his grace on your clit. "So wet." He pushed two fingers inside you without warning or preamble, deep and punishing.
You cried out – pain and unwanted pleasure colliding – as he thrust his fingers brutally.
"Your body doesn't lie," he hissed, watching your face contort as he curled his fingers inside you while his grace intensified its assault on your clit. "You might hate me…" He withdrew his fingers only to unzip his jeans with one hand, freeing Dean’s hard cock. "...but this cunt?" He positioned himself roughly against you. "It’s begging for him." He slammed into you in one brutal thrust.
The invasion was shocking, deep and unforgiving. You screamed, tears streaming down your face as he filled you completely, stretching you without mercy. He held himself there for a moment buried to the hilt, grinding against you, letting you feel every inch of him while his grace continued its relentless stimulation on your clit and nipples.
"Begging for it," he repeated darkly, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in hard enough to make your teeth rattle against the glass. He set a ruthless pace immediately – deep, punishing thrusts that stole your breath and forced choked gasps from you with every impact.
He used Dean’s body like a weapon against you. Used Dean’s strength to hold you immobile against the window overlooking an indifferent city. Used Dean’s cock to violate you with mechanical precision.
"You feel that?" he grunted against your ear, his thrusts never faltering, each one jarring your entire body against the unyielding glass. "He feels it too." His hand tightened painfully on your hip. "He feels every slide inside this tight little hole he loves so much." He punctuated the words with a particularly brutal thrust that made you sob.
Dean did feel it. He felt the obscene friction, the sickening intimacy Michael forced upon him as much as upon you. He felt the violation radiating from your terror through their shared vessel. It was a unique agony, a desecration of everything sacred between you two. His screams turned into broken, silent sobs within their prison.
Michael used his grace without mercy. As he pistoned into you with brutal efficiency, he kept that phantom touch circling and flicking your clit, pushing you relentlessly towards an edge you desperately didn't want to cross. Your body betrayed you utterly; slickness eased his harsh thrusts even as pain radiated from each one, and the coiled tension in your core grew tighter and tighter under the dual assault – physical invasion and supernatural stimulation.
"Go on," Michael taunted, his breath hot and ragged against your ear now. "Come for me." He shifted his angle slightly, hitting a spot deep inside that sent an electric jolt through you just as his grace vibrated intensely against your clit. "Show me how well he trained this body." He punctuated the command with three sharp, deep thrusts.
It was too much. The relentless stimulation overrode your terror and shame in a horrifying wave of pure physical overload. Your back arched involuntarily off the glass as a silent scream tore through you, your inner walls clenching violently around his invading cock in a devastatingly powerful orgasm you couldn't suppress.
Michael laughed – a harsh, triumphant sound – as he felt you convulse around him. "There it is," he snarled, driving into you harder and faster now, chasing his own release with single-minded intensity while your body still spasmed helplessly around him. "Even while you weep… you come for an archangel." His thrusts became erratic, brutal.
"Remember this," he gasped against your sweat-slicked temple just before he slammed deep one final time and stilled, his groan echoing Dean’s voice as he emptied himself inside you with possessive finality.
He held himself there for a long moment, pressed deep inside you as his grace finally released its torturous hold on your oversensitive nerves. The phantom touches vanished, leaving only aching emptiness and shame.
You slumped against the glass, trembling uncontrollably, tears still flowing silently down your cheeks, the evidence of his violation slick between your thighs.
Michael pulled out abruptly, leaving you cold and exposed against the window. He tucked himself back into his jeans with chilling nonchalance as he looked down at you – Dean’s eyes cold blue again.
"Dean knew how to please you," he said calmly, adjusting his shirt as if nothing had happened. "But I… I think I’ll enjoy learning what truly makes you break."
He turned and walked back towards the couch, leaving you crumpled on the floor by the window in torn lace and shattered dignity, Dean’s silent sobs echoing like a ghost in the opulent silence of his prison.
Do you ever imagine Cas looking at Michael while Dean is his vessel and being forced to watch Michael's true form smothering Dean's soul and not being able to do anything about it?
his low voice sent a chill down your spine and his grip on your hips was hot to the touch, pulling you down onto his lap roughly. your cunt landed right on his bulge and he smirked as you whimpered, pressing up against your bare core. he wordlessly instructs you to grind against his lap by guiding your hips in his lap.
“you know i’ll have to punish you for soiling my good pants with your wet cunt.” his lips are by your ear now, his free hand coming up to hold you in place by the throat. “undo my pants for me.”
your hands are already reaching down to unbutton his pants before he finishes his sentence, biting your lip as your hands brushed against his hard cock. he pushed his pants down and you helped him the rest of the way as he rubbed the tip of his dick along your slick, whimpers leaving your lips at the sensation.
you both moan in unison as he inches his cock into your cunt painfully slow, bottoming out before slamming into you with a pause, pulling you back to lay across his front as he pounds up into you. your eyes roll as his hand leaves your throat, his fingers sliding into your mouth.
“it’s like your pussy was made for dean. made for me.” his voice is low in your ear and he grinds his cock into you, the tip brushing against your sweet spot. you’re whimpering uncontrollably as his lips attach to your neck, sucking a mark into the skin as the fingers of his free hand circle your clit.
