((Rated R for adult situations. Here there be demon smexing, people.))
The night is dark as any other night, the room smells of stale sweat and cigarettes, but Lorne doesn't give a fuck. He's too far into the game to notice much other than the smell of sex, rich and heavy on his tongue and nestled in his nostrils and at the back of his throat like it's never going away. There are no other sounds in the room than the sounds they make - room number 66, on the sixth floor, and isn't that suitable as Hell. No other sensations than the abrasive rug burning his face and his shoulders, his arms and his torso and everything down to his twinkle toes. It's rough. It's hard and fast-paced and he'll be walking out of here with bruises in all sorts of places, but he just doesn't care. It's part of the game.
Later tonight, he'll sit at his desk, make calls and reservations, confirming itineraries and ETAs and gossip with various people he hasn't even met and doesn't ever want to. But in the here and now, with the sounds of heavy breathing in his ear and the wet slaps of flesh against flesh, everything else seems so, very far away. So far, it's in a completely different world. Before Milliways, that wouldn't have seemed quite so possible as it does now. Right now, it's as real as the hands gripping his hips, as the blunt nails digging into his skin. You might be surprised how many fancies are tickled by the idea of having sex with a demon. Nothing much surprises Lorne. He's seen it all.
"Oh, God." Mumbled in a voice that's fervent and hot and hoarse, everything it should be and more. "Your heart--"
It's like this with every new one. It's always about the heart. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt and tore it to shreds.
"No talking, sugar," he groans sharply, and the suddenness of it takes him by surprise. He doesn't even recognize his own voice, but he isn't there to make conversation. Neither of them are. Heart ain't got nothin' to do with it.
He can't remember if it ever did.
Later tonight, he'll sit at his desk, make calls and reservations, confirming itineraries and ETAs and gossip with various people he hasn't even met and doesn't ever want to. But in the here and now, with the sounds of heavy breathing in his ear and the wet slaps of flesh against flesh, everything else seems so, very far away. So far, it's in a completely different world. Before Milliways, that wouldn't have seemed quite so possible as it does now. Right now, it's as real as the hands gripping his hips, as the blunt nails digging into his skin. You might be surprised how many fancies are tickled by the idea of having sex with a demon. Nothing much surprises Lorne. He's seen it all.
"Oh, God." Mumbled in a voice that's fervent and hot and hoarse, everything it should be and more. "Your heart--"
It's like this with every new one. It's always about the heart. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt and tore it to shreds.
"No talking, sugar," he groans sharply, and the suddenness of it takes him by surprise. He doesn't even recognize his own voice, but he isn't there to make conversation. Neither of them are. Heart ain't got nothin' to do with it.
He can't remember if it ever did.