The idea of angels not feeling anything throughout their existence is a blessing.
A being above what we can understand is also a victim of existence like us. The first angels were crushed under the heavy burden of existing longer than they could understand, that's why they went mad.
So, God, cast them away from heaven to protect the other angels from descending into madness.
That's what was said to Castiel, over and over like it was written for other angels as a warning about feeling. They are angels of the lord, they don't need anything other than the guidance of the lord.
He believed it.
After all, why would god–his father–lie to him? To his brothers and sisters? Fathers are meant to protect their children from whatever might endanger them, whether the way the world works or imaginary monsters under the bed.
God however protected its angels by warning them about feeling, not letting them feel, which means protecting them from what it actually means to exist.
Just like everything else was created, angels are part of the cycle we call life. If angels go mad who would look over the babies with bright futures? Who would guide those during their darkest times?
Angels can't feel the sadness, because if they did, the sky would fall apart, the ocean would overflow the lands like the tears they couldn't shed for god knows how long.
Castiel followed what was said to him, he followed his father's words with nothing but obedience. He followed orders because he's a son, a soldier, and sometimes he can't tell the difference between the two.
Is there any difference between a son and a soldier?
One carries the orders to keep the lives of those who depend on him.
Other carries the legacy of the life he was given as a gift from those before him.
But both follow the orders from hands that cradled them once, with pride, in those moments a soldier and a son become one.
From the very first moment Castiel came down to earth, he was nothing but a soldier. He had orders to follow, and of course, he followed those orders because he's an angel. Angels are soldiers, soldiers are angels, bound to orders that were given to them with a promise of protection wrapped around.
He thought the orders were clear and simple. No regard for rest to save one. He saw it as a holy act to be sacrificed in the name of the lord's work.
Dammed be the overwhelming desperation that makes his wet cock slip out of you because of a needy, clumsy movement, causing Dex to grunt softly beneath you. Before you can even catch your breath, he blindly searches for his cock, shoving it roughly back into your swollen ruined pussy, ripping a shaky moan from your lips.
His hips resume their punishing rhythm, pounding upward in vicious thrusts that have you tensing and arching off his chest in a poor attempt to escape his overheated body. But his hands are tight on your hips, holding you captive as his cock rubs relentlessly against your G-spot.
Sobs, gasps, and small whines are all that escape your parted lips while you're just trying to beg him for a tiny break.
You have no idea how many times you've come, how many times you've dripped all over his cock until you've soaked the sticky sheets, all you know is that Dex hasn't come and seems to be on the agonizing edge for a long time, just pounding and leaking and whining and cursing because he can't fill you up and he's bringing you to his torture, ruining you as he's at it.
The sounds he makes in your ear are nothing but broken, pained with frustration as he sweats profusely and his freckled skin is deeply flushed, pretty blush trailing down past his shoulders and you feel another orgasm building inside you as his hand slides from your hip to your cunt, his middle finger beginning to make tight little circles on your swollen clit.
“Dex! Wait—wait,” you huff, whining, instinctively closing your legs, but you hear him refuse behind you, and a loud smack of his four fingers against your soaked cunt sends you shuddering, your thighs opening again thanks to the delicious sting.
“Open—” he commands, muffled in that hoarse voice, “keep them open, come on, come on baby, don’t close them, I don’t want it.” His voice is weary, desperation dripping from its tone, and you're sobbing, gripping his wrist because your clit is so sensitive to the touch. His hips don’t stop, his finger continues to abuse your flesh up and down, side to side, pressing while making circles, and he notices you squeeze his weeping cock tighter when he puts you under a restraint.
He starts thrusting rapidly into your cunt, some strokes of his finger softer than others, causing you to gasp his name and try to move your hips away from him, but he's still frustrated beneath you, accelerating his thrusts and slapping your pussy harder until the sound is so obscene and wet that you reach other orgasm, pain and pleasure merging into one, and you clench around him, coaxing a curse from him as the wave of pleasure tear your feverish tight body apart.
“Shit! Oh fuck—Ah, again, again” he sobs eagerly, feeling himself almost finish again but going back to the torture of not being able to, there are tears welling on his eyes and he's keeping his hand on top of your cunt as he fucks you, and the overwhelming stimulation is making you try to escape again, still fresh and tired from your orgasm and when his cock slips out of your quivering entrance again, he lets out a muffled sound, complaining and unable to bear how your body keeps trying to get away.
Regardless of your silent protests, he places his forearm around your neck, pressing against your throat roughly, causing your body to freeze on top of his. Your hands move up to grip his arm, his bicep, pawing and gripping at the muscles as you feel strange sensations rising towards your bladder and you force your throat to work, trying to spit out pitiful excuses of words as your body burns.
“S—Stop, Dex, please, please, I feel—” you mutter, a smack knocking the wind out of you, and you regain your voice while he's trying to merge with you. “M’gonna pee…” you sob, so embarrassed. “Dex, I’m gonna pee—please!” and you're not even sure if you're actually going to pee or it is just squirt, either way, both mean a mess on top of him, both mean shame when you're so overwhelmed and weak to think about the sweet benefits.
A burning tremor runs through every part of Dex's body at the your words full of panic and he has to swallow hard to speak.
For a split second, his thrusts cease and a quiet gasp escapes his lips. “Yeah? Are you sure?” he begins, his free hand traveling down your body until it rests on your stomach, and he's purring, talking again. “Do you promise?” he whispers eagerly, pressing his palm hard right over your lower belly, and you squirm, tensing as he starts moving his hips upward again quickly, stealing your breath and making your cheeks burn with shame.
He never thought about stopping.
Now you're letting your tears flow, trying to muffle your pitiful little cries as you're feeling your limit break faster than you can bear and Dex is babbling softly in your ear, making it so much worse for you. His forearm finally lets you breathe and suddenly he's using both hands, letting them rest on your bladder, maintaining such pressure that you arch your back, trying not to make a fucking mess on top of him as your chest rises an falls because the sick bastard is kneading at your stomach, milking you.
You can feel his cock twitching inside you, intrigued by what's coming next. So hard and eager for it, Dex is humming when he feels you just can't take it anymore and he lets out a hoarse, shaky laugh, so excited he's lost his mind and completely forgot about his own impossible climax.
“It hurts, right? The restraint... Worst part is that you're doing it to yourself,” he purrs amusedly, gently pounding upwards, nothing compared to what he's doing on your belly. “I'm not even doing it anymore... You love to restrain yourself when you're with me. It's sad.” he whispers and you sob because it hurts so much and he's right.
“My girl, you make me feel bad for this. But you won't leave until you do it.”
"You were made for this weren't you?" Dean muttered to his brother's ear, each word punctured with a thrust that rattled the bed frame. Of course, he knew the answer of the question, his sweet boy was made for him.
Just for Dean.
The answer he got was a muffled sob, poor Sammy boy was on edge for god knows how long. Dean is not someone who believes in gods and shits but he knows no heaven would match how Sammy's warm walls feel around his cock.
Speaking of.. Dean's hand slid down to wrap around Sam's cock, leaking so much precum. He pressed his thumb to slit, collecting the precum, his other hand was already buried in Sam's sweaty locks.
He pulled Sam's hair to lift his head up from the pillow and oh.. how good his sweet brother looks right now. Cheeks flushed, damp with tears and some of his shorter hair locks sticked to his sweaty forehead. A sight for sure.
Dean didn't need to say anything as Sam already parted his swollen lips to take Dean's thumb.
And the way he moaned around Dean's thumb when he takes it? Tasting his own precum. Nodding mindlessly to Dean's rough whispers, if he wasn't edged with every inch of his life, he would've said something back to those words.
If only Dean knew how much Sam wanted to be filled over and over till it was spilling out, how much he would've liked to carry a piece of Dean with him. As twisted as it sounded, nothing got him off more than the thought of being bred by his older brother.
It feels weird to grieve someone that you don't know, you've never seen them with your own eyes. You don't know the sound of their voice, or their wild laugh that feels like it comes straight from their heart. Sam doesn't know Mary yet he grieves her.
Sometimes he stares at his own reflection on the bathroom mirror, the light flickers as it casts shadows under his eyes. He wondered which part of his face belonged to his mom.
She died before Sam could remember her, he wondered if his mom was afraid. Was she in pain during her final moments? Or was it painless?
He knows he can't bring the dead back to life with sheer grief alone but what is he gonna do with this vast pain? Somewhere under his ribcages, deep in his heart, it's consuming him.
He can't bury it.
Can't burn it.
He can only live with it until the day he dies for good. No hell, no deals.
Summary: Isaac promised Reader that he'll have a gaggle of pups with her.
Author's Note: Based on this request I received.
Six years ago when Isaac had promised you that he'd keep you full and happy and he wanted to have a gaggle of little ones with you, you had assumed he was being dramatic or just overzealous.
But now? Six years married with a five-year-old girl and a two-year-old boy, you were sure that it was more than just a declaration of love. It had been an absolute promise.
Every spring, he went into the most feral rut. You weren't sure how he controlled it when you were dating- Maybe the fact that he gave you the matebite on your wedding night might have something to do with it? But the point being. Every spring he went into rut, and the first summer, you were pregnant because you didn’t thik you needed birth control. And he knotted you every night because It’s against my nature, gorgeous. How can I not? You’re my perfect mate .
After the first birth, you went on birth control. Stayed on it for a while and then as soon as you went off it- Boom. Pregnant again.
tit obsessed mommy kink adrian who absolutely goes insane when he finds out you're pregnant????
"But I'm still the first one to call you mommy, okay?"
he'd massage your sore body and kiss his way across-
and when you start to show? bubble wrapping you but also wanting to show you off- it's a hard line for him to walk on. he wants you in bodycons to show everyone that that's HIS baby in his baby- but he also wants no one to look at you because you're his!!
your boobs grow and he salivates every time he looks at you.
he already loved to suck on them when you jerked him off or teased and edged him but now? now it's a whole different ballgame. your belly his pressing against his face, and he sucks with his big needy eyes on your face and stream down his face as you play with the tip of his dick-
he knows if he was to ever break the law, it would only be for you- because you are geniuenly divinity made flesh for him.
and when the baby comes? oh no-
"Can I have a sip when the baby's done? Just a little taste?" then he goes ham on your boobs, massaging, sucking, drinking like no tomorrow- thankfully you have a good supply-
It's a slow day. You're a little sad and a little bored and the sky is low and grey so you don't think you'll be able to have much fun outside before the rain shoos you back into the dimly-lit, stuffy inside. It feels too dull to even think about what the time between now and bedtime could be used for. And so you worry.
>
You're worried because if you were clever enough, the living room wouldn't feel so sticky. You have books to read, of course, and you like to, but you can't get away from thinking you should've picked it up before you believed its something you very much must do. Obviously, a book is useless if you can't focus on the text, so guiltily, you ditch it. There must be something else you can come up with.
Toys don't seem very fun at all, anyone can do toys. You could draw something, but you're convinced it would do better in the trash, as anything you do is soulless. Outside there's at least trees to discuss your worries with, birds to tell you you're just breathing air but it's too wet outside, the room is full of missed opportunity and you're spread thin. Why do you worry? You've got a lot of options, mix and match to your heart's desire. Have you done so?
Mommy shies in so quietly. She smiles at your whine, not to mock you. She tells you it's okay, raised cheekbone against the side of your hot face, her arms snaking around, sneakily locking you in. She is crouched behind you, hair closer to a veil. Its even stuffier now between you and her, but the bright of her clothes hides the troubles like a big smooth wall. She asks what's wromg and you are to embarrassed to admit you got so anxious over choosing an activity.
"If you're this bored," she says, playing dumb in hopes you'll catch on to the positives, "you can help me in the kitchen. I need a couple drawers re-organized." That sounds fun, doesn't it? She gives you a squeeze.
And it is fun. You know that once it's done, you'll go back to wasting time thinking over the time wasted, but right now you're happy to count and stack the pots. Everybody can do pots but for once, you feel like you've earned the 'good job' at the end, and mommy doesn't mind you're taking too long to figure out how to arrange them how it's right. She doesn't mind that you don't want to step on the lines between the tiles, or that you have a 'right' way of touching the dishware, and that all of it is inconvenient and repetitive. She is happy you're not off somewhere scared, and you're happy she's kind enough to care.
Once everything is pieced together you get a kiss on the cheek. "If you're ever worried," she whispers, "just tell me, and I'll find you something to do." The words are sincere, her face drawn droopier after a minute of dealing with your neuroses and plain worry for her baby. "I'll help you."
She's busy now, it's still raining. You're counting your steps, avoiding spots you've made up, but its clearer now, comfortable. So you just turn on the TV and wait to see mommy at dinner, knowing its all okay and always will be.
