2Warnings: Graphic. Um. And Yellow-Eyed Demon. So. Different from my usual stuff.
The Blue-Eyed Boy
He's not shy, and he's not polite. He comes in to the diner in a confetti shower of darkness and snow swirls, short, receding hair pulling in the wind, smirk pushed down low in his mouth. He's got an energy about him that sets her shoulders straight; got a look and a feel that surrounds him and makes her wish for hot chocolate and Mills and Boon paperback novels and her warm, cat-covered bed. But she's on shift and she needs some exercise anyway; sitting on her glutinous maximus on the kitchen floor doesn't keep one awake until work ends at four thirty am. She has to move and he's there, so she grabs her pad and goes.
"What can I get'cha?" she says, tone bored and tired, Southern accent dripping in despite wishes, and she cracks her violently green gum, loud. A whip-crack in the dull ambience of fluorescent lights and the faded, looping Chicago soundtrack on the spritzing radio. He looks up at her, light wrinkles sunken in around his eyes, engraved on his forehead, a deep dimple in his chin; middle-aged and a little on the stout side, but he's curiously alluring regardless. Has this indefinable aura of power that shifts her pen between her nerveless fingers. It's nothing like she's ever felt before, and she doesn't know what to make of it. Just wishes he'd order and stop looking at her with that heavy gaze, so she can go back to drawing ink boxes on her knees. She watches the paper under her thumb crumple up when she presses down a little too hard, instead of his eyes.
"Ah, yes. Melanie." Her name in his mouth sounds like a curse and a twisted blessing; his voice coarse and husky, deep and strumming clubbed, nicotine-stained fingertips along her erector spinea. It's drawn out as though he's tasting the sound, and she represses a shiver, rationalising it as a reaction to the chill air of the air conditioner on the fritz again. The three years and nine months that she's been working here, it's never gotten fixed. "You're one I've been waiting for."
"'Scuse me?" she asks, and flicks her eyes up, meeting his. They're sulphur yellow and pupil-less, and she starts with surprise, head jerking, eyes a rapid butterfly pulse on her cheeks. He's smiling – mouth rucked up a bit in the right corner to mirror his grey eyebrow, something smug and forebodingly omnipresent inside of it. Her rectus abdominus clenches, fear and something warm and sticky warring within her, both of which she bats back with determination. "I – look, do you want anything here, or not?" she said, trying to regain dignity – trying to regain something – and to hide the tremor invading her throat.
"So kind of you to ask my dear, so sweet and caring and conscientious – but that's you all round, isn't it?" His words are hissed and drawled with quiet satisfaction and irony, low vibration of his shifting voice, the man with his eyes set on her, gaze never leaving her own washed-out blue. They seemed to glow, the sharp yellow colour of them unnatural, blatantly so – she'd only ever seen irises like that on cats… and in her dreams. "The kind hearted, all so innocent smart girl with her books, and her pets and her voluntary work… incorruptible."
"I – I think you'd better leave, sir," she said, breaths coming shallower now, pulled in tight to her chest so she wouldn't graze his body with hers – he was honing in on her, coming closer, closer, closer – a predator stalking its inevitable prey, herding her. Where was everyone – where – where –?
– her back was against the wall and he was leaning in, inches separating them, her notepad and pen dropping with anticlimactic clatters on the scratched linoleum. He was surrounding her with his proximity, his body – his power. Power so thick and dark it was a mudslide of need and fear in her oesophagus, clutching at the words that wanted to ask – what, why, who, how, help, stop, please, yes – "Ah, Melanie; I know. I know everything about you. All those secrets you keep locked out of your little pink diary, keep locked up in your brain, in your soul. In your nightmares."
"You –"
"Yes, I know. I know about the nightmares. The ones where you're slicing open his flesh. Sinking teeth into his thighs. Holding his heart in your hands and feeling it beat away his life… the guilty, black pleasure of it. I know it all."
As he says it, it all comes back – the midnight visions of a lanky boy with choppy hair around his cheekbones, legs longer than The Sound of Music and a dick that curved sweetly up into her palm. His moans of pleasure-pain as she stroked his flesh with knives and whips and flames, as she cut sigils she'd never seen into his skin and licked the wounds clean. The way his body bended to her will as his eyes screamed at her, as his spit-slick lips whimpered and ground out pleas and curses and told her he knew it wasn't her fault, it really wasn't – he knew it was the demon – she could fight it, they could fight it together, just please, don't, stop. The bob of his Adam's apple as she laughed every time, as she took him inside her and locked her eyes on the yellow ones in the corner, as she rode him and dug her fingers into his chest, reaching for the source of his pulse. The feverish glee as the scarlet muscle flinched and worked between her squeezing fingers.
"The blue-eyed boy…" she moaned helplessly, head lolling back on her neck as his mouth came to nip at her jaw, his hands came up to skim her sides. His sharp-edged smirk against the ridges of her trachea. "The blue-eyed boy…"
"Yes…"
– and he was pushing into her from behind, so thick – so thick – so deep and big inside her, reaching his hand around to palm her, wet trickling slick between her thighs as he circled with his fingers on her clitoris – there – ohgodthere – and he bit her, teeth sinking into her shoulder, latching on to suck a bruise into the skin.
Putting it to her like it meant something, like the quick, harsh way he fucked his way in was a introduction to something bigger – something – something – and he was sliding a hand up to twist sensitive flesh, nipples rutting between those short fingers, and looking down she can see the contrast of her pale flushed flesh to the yellow stains beneath his nails. The press of his jeans into her hamstrings, three cold hard round circles on the heated flesh. Scrape of the zipper and the denim. Scrape of his otherness like canines on her raw, spiking senses, darkness a solid, tangled spider web crawling in and cradling her body. A black thing, a low, smothering cloud of it, clammy and dreadful and wonderfully icy on her nerves and she could feel it.
She knew, with perfect and utter clarity in that moment, that she wanted it – wanted that darkness, the horror of it hitting into her, pressing into her like his dick at her core, feeling real like nothing ever had in her miserably insignificant life. She wanted it laced and draped through her until nothing of what she was – is – had been – showed anymore, to anyone, to anything.
The cheap cream lacquer of the table digs lines into the flesh of her palms, and she scrabbles at it with chipped purple acrylic as he slides in and out of her, thrusting in those ideas and the – yes, yes I want it, I need it – give it to me – come on, come on, I can take it – oh – yes, I can take it – uninhibited bestial instincts at her nucleus. At the corner of her eye she sees a congealing, spreading puddle of red across the linoleum, and she cries out as she comes, eyes closing tight, mouth stretched around the victorious glitter-pull of the wicked rush. He's behind her, pumping in and jerking deep in her heat, laughing short and breathless and triumphant against the nape of her neck.
She'd seen this in her dreams - her nightmares - her visions - too.
The radio's still playing away in the corner, like the world hasn't changed, like nothing momentous has happened, nor will it.
"Oh yes, they both reached for the gun, the gun, the gun, the gun. Oh yes, they both reached for the gun."
AN: This came from this icon I saw of the YED in 2.21; you know where he has his finger up being all smug and lecturing Sammy? Yeah, it was a pic of that and it said 'this is why I'm hot'. And then I just had to write porn. This came from it. Um. Yeah. Yes, the Blue-Eyed Boy is Sam. There is quite a lot of debate over his eye colour, but I decided hazel wouldn't do for this one as he could've been mistaken for Dean.