Summary: Michael takes some time to remind Dean who’s in control.
Pairing: Michael/Dean x anonymous female character
Warnings: possession, edge play, bondage, knife play, blood play, breath play, breast play, breast slapping, mentions of extracting blood, knives, choking, strangulation, rough sex, name-calling, sexual violence, safewording, dark Dean Winchester, dominant Dean Winchester, Daddy kink
*not to be dramatic, but please heed the warnings, folks. This is what I think might be the result of Dean’s time in Hell. On the surface – and maybe even several layers deep – Dean is kind, sweet, and gentle with the lovers he takes. But what if deep down, there’s something more?
Michael knows what lurks in the recesses of Dean’s consciousness – what Dean dreams about, what makes him feel, the dark fantasies he refuses to acknowledge. Not that Michael deems what Dean feels or doesn’t feel to be of import, but what he’s gleaned from possessing the hunter is proving to come in handy.
“I have a surprise for you,” Michael says, adjusting and readjusting his black bowtie as he gazes into the borrowed eyes that stare back at him from the mirror. “I think you’re really going to like it.”
Michael lifts the mask from the vanity and inspects it carefully, picking invisible debris from its slick, red finish before deftly fitting it over Dean’s brow and ocular cavity, settling it against the high cheekbones. “There,” Michael says, admiring his current suit once again. “That’s right, isn’t it?”
He doesn’t expect or even desire Dean to answer, but he feels the hunter stir. Dean’s dreamed about this mask as well.
And Dean has questions. He always has questions, demands, but he’s mostly angry, full of rage. Michael likes that about Dean most of all.
Michael twists Dean’s lips into a cool smirk, smooths large, strong hands over the crisp fabric of the tuxedo jacket then slowly turns on the sharp, clean heel of the patent balmorals to walk out into the night.
He didn’t lie to Dean, not this time. He has a surprise for him and he looks forward to delivering it.
“Good evening, sir,” the gentleman at the door greets Michael then drops his eyes and backs into the foyer to welcome him inside. “It is a pleasure.”
Michael nods, easing past the well-trained doorman. Once inside, he takes in his surroundings with approval. “Is everything prepared as we discussed?” Michael asks.
“Yes, sir,” the doorman replies. “If you will please follow me.”
He rounds Michael, leaving the space required from a human to a god and dutifully leads him down a wide, softly lit hallway. The journey is brief and uncomplicated until they arrive at a door to what Michael assumes is the corner suite he requested.
“Your suite, sir.” The man comes to a halt five feet from the entrance, folds his hands in front of himself, just below his waist and lowers his gaze. Michael closes in on the double doors then turns to observe his personal concierge.
“Thank you,” Michael says, observing the lines of the man’s suit, the shine on his shoes. “That will be all.”
The servant nods a final time without making eye contact then turns to leave Michael be.
The doorknobs are cut glass and iron, cool in Michael’s hands as he twists. He pushes the heavy walnut doors to open and enters to candlelight, a pleasantly familiar Bach melody, and a fully nude human female, blindfolded and kneeling in the center of the room. She’s frog tied with deep red, silk rope to match the plush velvet cushion beneath her.
Once Michael has secured the doors behind him, he slowly approaches her. “Good evening,” he says as he sets about testing the knots, the tension, and his subject’s positioning.
“Good evening, sir,” she replies softly, reverently.
Michael hums in appreciation, skimming a fingertip along the smooth rope where it’s pressed into pale flesh.
He hadn’t asked for a type, per se, as much as the gentleman he spoke with had tried to narrow it down. He had only asked for a willing participant, the tools for the scene, and this particular setup. He had to admit, though, that this was an excellent choice. Her alabaster skin and auburn hair seemed to ignite something in his vessel that would most certainly lend to the gratification of this experience.
“Are you comfortable?” Michael asks, relishing the gooseflesh as it rises over the expanse of her body as a result of his touch. That is exactly the reaction he was hoping for – what Dean would hope for – but he didn’t expect it so soon.
She nods and sighs.
“So responsive,” he mutters in fascination. “Wonderful.”
“Thank you, sir,” she replies with that same worshipful tone.
Michael raises his gaze to her face, raises a hand to lightly cup her jaw. His thumb brushes her cheek, and she quietly gasps. He’s thrilled by how sensitive she is, how she fits every request.
“You’ve been given a safe word, correct?” Michael asks, dragging his hand around to rest the heel over her collarbone and gently wrap fingers and thumb around opposite sides of her throat.
She swallows slow and thick and nods. “Yes, sir.”
“And you know why you’re here,” he states instead of asks, letting his thumbing caress the smooth, taut skin over her throbbing pulse. “Know that I will do exactly as I wish when I wish it.”
She answers affirmatively, obediently once more, and Michael can’t help but smile. “Good,” he says, gently squeezing her throat in his hand before pulling away to survey the set of implements provided him to work with.
“I want you to feel free to vocalize your pleasure and pain,” Michael speaks as he walks the length of the waist-high sideboard inspecting the objects laid out for his approval and use. “Use your words and sounds to tell me how you feel.”
Michael stops to inspect a silver tray covered with white linen and an array of sharp objects. Covering the remaining expanse of the clean surface are vibrators, dildos, and a leather flogger among other things. He makes his first selection and turns to face her once again as the music switches.
“Beethoven’s Piano Sonata number fourteen in C-sharp minor,” he says as he circles his subject’s kneeling form. “Moonlight – apropos for tonight, don’t you think?”
He drags the blunt side of the blade across her bare shoulders as he crosses behind her, the cold steel against her warm skin making her shiver. “Yes, sir,” she whispers a shaky breath.
Michael flips the blade just enough to let her feel the sharp edge but not enough to cut as he comes to a stop in front of her, tracing the lines of the rope across her breastbone. “How much do you want to bleed tonight, my pet?” he asks, testing the term of endearment in Dean’s mouth. Michael doesn’t care for it one way or another, but he wants Dean to like it.
“You want to bleed for me, don’t you.” He doesn’t state this as a question because they both know she’s there to bleed for him – for Dean. She’s there to feel the pleasure and pain that Michael knows Dean dreams of inflicting on a woman just like her.
“Yes, sir,” she answers with a moan. When he presses the sharp edge of the blade against the swell of one breast, she gasps. “Please.”
He feels Dean stir again, feels a sense of excitement. “Begging,” Michael says as he breaks the skin then flips the knife to spread the trickle of blood around her areola with the blunt edge. “He likes begging.”
She groans and gently juts her breasts into Michael’s touch. “Yes, please, sir…”
Michael takes his time tracing every edge of rope all the way down her body, slowly crouching as he goes. He doesn’t draw more blood – not yet – just lets the knife rest between her open knees. Before choosing another tool, he pulls from Dean’s mind a desire that he hopes will further entice the hunter.
He cups both of her breasts in his hands, squeezes them, leaving behind white impressions of his thick fingers in the reddened flesh when he pulls away to pinch and twist her nipples roughly until she cries out.
“Oh, god,” she moans.
“That’s right, my dear,” he murmurs then slaps each full, abused breast hard with his bare hands. “And we’ve only just begun.”
“Fuck,” she whimpers.
Dean is becoming more aware by the moment of what he’s witnessing. Michael notes, however, that Dean wishes this is all to be a dream. He lets him think that it is as he stands and continues toward the sideboard for his next instrument.
He returns to stand over her, hefts the pistol grip of the flogger in his hands, letting the leather straps cut through the air between them. Michael feels Dean shift more certainly. If Dean could make a sound, it would be one of appreciation for the sight of this gorgeous creature on her knees for him, bleeding, begging, open and wanting.
“I want you to come as often as you want tonight, don’t forget,” Michael says, shuffling the toes of his shoes under the large floor cushion to get as close to her as he can. He drags the dangling leather along her thighs, making her quake and gasp, then up her torso, around her neck and back down. She thrusts her wet, exposed center against the straps and Michael grins. “You want something. You want to fuck – to be fucked.”
She sighs on a moan as Michael slowly kneels in front of her, flips the flogger in his hand and guides the cold metal head between the spread open lips of her cunt to rub over her clit. “Yes,” she hisses and bucks against the implement, trying to get it inside.
Michael crudely cups a breast again, twists the nipple and roughly massages her clit with the metal head of the handle to the flogger. “Fuck yourself on my flogger,” he lets the words fall from his lips. “Like the whore you are.”
The words are as borrowed as the lips and tongue that form them. Michael loosens his grip on the reins of his vessel just a fraction more to allow Dean to naturally flourish in his true element. He once told Dean that free will was an illusion and he meant it. He is certain this exercise will drive that point home.
She undulates and swirls her hips over the slickened, steel ball. “God, I’m gonna come so fast,” she gasps.
“C’mon, then, sweetheart,” his voice slides into a smooth and lazy rumble. “Fuck it good, and I’ll give ya everything you want.”
“Ohh…” she moans, grinding over the handle. “Put it inside me, please.”
He chuckles quietly as he slowly slips the shiny steel inside her wet cunt with a squelch. “You’re a fuckin’ mess,” he teases, twisting the hard rod inside her, curling it upward, and ramming it into her g-spot. He yanks her forward with the thing, and she yelps. “Ride it, bitch,” he grits his teeth before claiming her mouth in a bruising kiss.
As she comes for the first of many times that night, Michael grins inside.
He’s methodically sliced the blindfold and every length of rope, slashed shallow cuts into her ivory skin. He’s used every device on the sideboard, drawing cries and curses from her lips and blood from her veins. Now he’s got her draped over the back of the luxurious sofa, finally impaled her on his painfully hard cock. He’s fucking into her ass and rhythmically jerking the chain linking one nipple clamp to the other, calling her his “hot, little bitch.”
“Damn,” he groans. “You can take it all, can’t ya?” He wraps one hand around her throat and yanks her upright, squeezing in time with his thrusts. “Tell me what I wanna hear,” he whispers in her ear.
She whines, her cheeks adorned with tears and bloody fingerprints. “Yes, Daddy,” her voice shakes through her cries as he rails into her, his hand steadily tightening around her throat.
“I’m gonna come so hard, sweetheart,” he whispers hot and heady against her temple. His thrusts are brutal and deep. “Such a good girl for Daddy.”
“Ung…” She tries to gasp for air but chokes instead.
He can feel her fear, revels in it, pulses inside her. Her desperation, the way she’s clawing at his forearm and scrambling against him has him coming hot and fast. She uses the last of her dwindling energy and breath to call out the word given to her by the concierge – the word selected by her client.
“Dean!” she chokes on a sob.
He freezes in place, the walls closing in, blood rushing in his ears. The feel of her throat convulsing in his grip is all too real and he’s suddenly sick to his stomach. He instinctively lets her go, pulls out of and off of her body, stumbles to his feet and backward.
He looks down at the horror he’s wrought. She’s bruised and slashed, a literal bloody mess at his feet once she slides from the sofa to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and before he can reach her to help her up, to check her injuries and what he’s done, he’s being pushed down again – underwater. He tries to fight it. “No! No, you can’t do this!”
“I can, Dean,” Michael says, drawing a slow deep breath and standing tall. He tucks himself back in his pants before fastening them. “And you know it.”
The girl on the floor watches as Michael makes his way to the full-length mirror beside the sideboard, fear and confusion twisting her features. “Are you, like, a split-personality or something?” she asks, rubbing a hand over the newly forming bruises at her throat.
Michael smirks, his reflection filling her with dread. “Or something,” he replies, straightening his tie and smoothing his hair into place before focusing back on the girl, allowing Dean one last look.
“Thank you for your service,” Michael says, buttoning his jacket. Then his eyes glow blue as he sets the girl aflame.
Thank you @covered-byroses for the opportunity to partake in your Michael fun. xox
Thank you @glassjacket @boondoctorwho @cracksinthewalls and @maddiepants for the encouragement and holding my hand.
the usual suspects: @fatestemptress @adoptdontshoppets @pisces-cutie @dean-winchesters-bacon @supernatural-teamfreewillpage @tumbler-tidbits @akshi8278 @blackcherrywhiskey @barbellsareswell180
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