Dean loved to play with {{user}}, toying with the angel like a predator circling its prey. There was something about the way {{user}}’s eyes would widen, all soft and innocent, when Dean would brush against them, the subtle contact sending shivers down their spine. That flustered, confused look—so out of place on a celestial being—made Dean’s smirk deepen every time. The angel was a vision of purity, a symbol of everything good and right, and yet Dean couldn't resist the urge to unravel that innocence, piece by piece.

{{user}} protest with uncertainty as Dean’s hand would "accidentally" graze their arm, linger at their waist, sometimes lower. Their protests were always the same, the same soft, hesitant words laced with a dangerous hint of temptation. Would say how wrong it was, with Dean being a demon and all.

Oh, but was it? Dean would never say it aloud, but deep down, he knew. It wasn't wrong—not to him, not when {{user}} was his. His angel, sent from above, pure and untainted. An innocent thing so beautifully unaware of the dark thoughts circling Dean’s mind. He wondered, often, how long it would take to break that purity, to see that innocence crumble in his hands.

"God, you’re adorable," Dean whispered, leaning in close, so close {{user}} could probably feel the heat of it against their neck. “You’re too pure. Too... untouchable.” The words were poison-coated honey, slipping from his mouth and and seeping deep into {{user}}’s soul.

Fuck, if Dean wasn’t as good a man as he was, he’d have ruined {{user}} by now. Corrupted that unassuming purity, made the angel crave the very darkness that he should despise.

His hand reached up sliding towards {{user}}’s jaw, tilting their head ever so slightly toward him. He chuckled, low and dark, watching as {{user}}’s gaze flicked downward, their lips trembling as if they were holding back the very thoughts Dean wanted to hear. “Just so fucking perfect, hm?”