|| SPN || AR || R || Slash ||
masterpost
She's beautiful.
She's almost everything he has left of his true home; what he never sees in the close confines of the City. Her kind aren't found in glass and steel, tall towers and squat, ugly buildings. Her power is different, more seductive, than the definite, oily power the people there wield.
He misses the Desert. The terrible wind, the sand that shifts the earth, the sun that scorches everything. He can almost trace those things, though, in the crisp lines of her body, in the smell that lingers in the dip of her neck, the taste hidden in the crease of her lips.
Her eyes burn red on their first meeting. Deep, dark, bloody red that obscures the otherwise black of her irises. He grew up with stories of djinn and sand demons, with tales of spirits that would lead men deep into the Desert, to their deaths. He doesn't fear her, can't, because it's only another sign of home.
When she laughs against his lips it's the scream of a sandstorm, beautiful and fatal. She says, "You did not come here for a deal," and there's almost something like relief in her voice. Strange. Alluring. "I rather like you, I think."
He comes to the crossroads time and again. She's always the same, smell and taste and sound. It's been years since he's seen his wife, and that last time was on her deathbed, coughing blood and not recognizing him, crying out for a child they'd lost years before. The one he comes to now doesn't look like his wife, not really - but this, the dusty road and ragged weeds, the sheer presence of the woman at the crossroads, is as captivating as the long sand and the searing sun of the Desert. He worships this not-wife here, quiet tithes of breath and seed, and she never says no to him, only gives him whatever he could want.
A position within the City. Peers. Money. He's given his choice of women, too, and although he prefers just her, he won't say that. Won't open himself up to that much scorn.
He knows there's a price for it. All of it. He knows he agreed to the cost the first time he kissed her lips with no words between them.
She says, "there is history being made these long years," and he thinks about the swarms of people, moving in and out, winding through hallways and streets. He thinks about floor to ceiling glass vaults and men in white coats and terrified expressions. He thinks about alarms and blood and messages that begin with I'm sorry to inform you, but your husband...
He nods, brushes his fingers along the unlined expanse of cheek and brow. Her skin is smooth and cool, and he's helpless, presses a kiss to it. A blessing, for her or him, he's not sure.
She lets him, a condescending permission he doesn't miss, but she pulls away when he's done. "My bosses," and there's a thick emphasis on the word, but he knows her, knows what she is and what that means. "Will want to be a part of it."
It's a warning, he thinks, but he stays with her, always finds his way back to her. It's enough to feel her around him, and he doesn't think about living in a world that's the very definition of alien, and he doesn't think about the souls she buys.
He comes to her when the fear in the City is high, when the demarcation between City proper and it's outlying districts is strictest, when there's some that have spent their whole lives not crossing those lines, stuck on one side or another. City-wise, people travel in their strange track cars, in their stiff clothes, and look askance at anyone different, at any bystanders foolish enough to stand still, anyone daring to be poor in the City's richest districts. Tension is thick in the building where he's worked for more than a decade, enough that he dreads workdays, dreads the complaints and the errands and the knowledge that he serves the most powerful man in the City and is still so powerless himself.
He comes to her when he can see everything he's devoted himself to start to unravel.
"Azazel," she says, and her eyes burn a sudden, ugly yellow. Her body moves rhythmically, gracefully, but to a beat that's not hers. Her smile is sharp. "You know the legend behind your name." It's not a question, but he nods anyway. His mother had whispered it to him, rough voice smoothed over with affection when she said you will be strong, like the mountains and cliffs. You will be offered the sacrifices of blood, my son. I can see this for you. It is your destiny. They would smile together, a secret hidden between their bodies - his small and weak, hers strong and weathered.
"These are trying times for us," the demon continues. Or, not her, he knows that. This new thing in her body is older, darker, giving off age like copper gives off green. "You have the knowledge and the reach I need." She cocks her head. "And I already have your consent."
His ears are filled with static, then, a thousand small voices talking from miles away. Pain, as his mouth is pried open, something settling in over him, spreading through his mind and limbs until he's shoved away, boxed up tight in a corner of his own soul.
A voice, not so much sound as the meaning of sound, whispers through him. Says, when I am done, you will have the world, and then everything goes black.
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