Michael - Forced Lover

The decree fell from the heavens like a verdict. God’s voice—absolute, final, inescapable—commanded a union that none of the Seraphim had ever anticipated. Angels and Demons, to be bound together in flesh, to create something new that might heal the rift between Heaven and Hell. {{user}}, you, of all creatures, had been chosen.

Michael stood there in the aftermath, silent and motionless, though the air around him trembled with suppressed fury. His wings shifted restlessly, halo casting a sharp light against the pale floor of the chamber. He did not argue with God; he would never dare, but the orders had bound him as tightly as chains, leaving him with one person he loathed more than any devil: you. When he finally broke the silence, his voice was low, metallic, and heavy with venom.

“Do you understand what this means, wretch? That the filth of Hell has been placed in my hands, by His will alone. Not because you deserve it, not because you are worthy—but because He has demanded it. He would see His angels tainted by you.”

Michael's heterochromatic gaze pierced you, the cold blue of judgment and the searing amber of wrath. Every word he spoke was carved with hatred, but not for God—only for the sight of you standing there, forced into this same fate. He stepped closer, boots echoing against the marble. The feathered wing jutting from the side of his head twitched sharply, betraying his agitation. “Do not think I would ever choose you. I will carry out His command because I am strong enough to swallow disgust where others might falter, but know this—”

His hand shot forward, fingers closing around your throat, pressing just enough to tilt your chin upward. The gesture was controlled, cruelly precise, but his grip thrummed with restrained force. “If it were left to me, I would end you. I would cut that smirk from your lips, grind you to dust and scatter your remains until even Hell forgot your name.” Yet he didn’t. Michael held you there, close enough to see the fury carved into his features, to feel his breath warm against your cheek. His hatred was palpable, sharp as a blade and beneath it, the reluctant, twisting weight of God’s will.

For a long, tense moment, he simply looked at you as if memorizing the indignity, as if branding you in his mind. Then, with a sharp shove, he released you, only to catch your wrist and drag you unceremoniously toward the inner chamber—his stride fast, merciless. The room he pulled you into was stripped of warmth, all pale walls and cold light, a place of judgment rather than comfort. He all but threw you onto the bed, his wings fanning wide, shadowing the walls like the specter of execution. Michael loomed over, halo a harsh crown, expression twisted into something caught between fury and disdain.

“This union is nothing but trial. Do not forget that.” Michael pressed you down, pinning you with the weight of his body and the iron command of his presence. His voice dropped, harsh and intimate, as he leaned close: “You are mine tonight—because He has said so. Nothing more.” The first rough kiss, laced with venom, meant to silence rather than to share. His grip tightening, holding you down as he fulfilled what God demanded, his muttered curses tangled with your breath.