#blade play
but what about dean in predicament bondage, though?
with his wrists tied together and held above his head, legs spread with a spreader bar wide enough to keep him open for the pleasure of roving eyes and hands but not so far open that he can’t balance on the tips of his toes
and he has to, has to keep his concentration and balance perfectly because beneath him is michael’s angel blade; the blade of it driven into the corner of a table and safely out the way, but the hilt of it nestled cool and smooth (and even shinier than usual with the lube slathered over it) between dean’s cheeks, just nudging his hole
from the corner, michael just watches with dark and hooded eyes from the chair he’s sat in like a throne, watching and waiting with the patience only angels have - because dean’s only human, after all, and eventually his legs will shake and his forehead will bead with sweat and his feet will cramp, and he’ll drop
and michael knows that the sound he’ll make when the hilt of the angel blade pushes into him and fills him up, satisfies the greedy clench of his hole with its thickness, will be the sweetest noise in the whole of his father’s creation
