[4.08] don't you remember you told me you love me baby
There is sex. And then there is sex. There is fucking and screwing and banging and knocking boots and even the ever cliché, making love.
They'd done it all, knocking boots even in the most literal sense when hers had hit his during an imbalance induced fall. The irony that he'd caught her and picked her up off her feet was not lost on her.
Their relationship was primarily based on sex. Often, enduring, and occasionally sandy. Even after, when something had changed, it was still about sex. Because demons you know, they lie and you shouldn't trust a word from their mouths and what better way to cope than losing yourself in sweat and soft panting breaths and purring. For a while it was just a means to an end. He saw her eyes and smiled, she touched his soul and he tingled.
It was mutual, but far from love.
She was broken, a bruised demon on shore leave from the home she was inevitably going to return to -- that was the thing about helping Winchesters, fickle fickle boys for all their faith -- but she wasn't meant to be on Earth as it was, she'd abandoned that so many years ago.
He was equally broken, a barely holding it together transgenic who hid it all with a smug grin and an ease about him that was rarely lost, even in the face of death -- his own of course; others mattered, he didn't. He was a rare breed, a god among men, but no one worshipped him and that was his saving grace.
There were no birds singing or trees dancing or mice sewing a dress. There were no fireworks or sparks or candlelight dinners. There was sex and it was good and then it was just there.
Romancing was an art lost on both of them, roses and fine wine discarded in favor of toe tags and already tasted slices of red filled pie.
There was something selfish in it, to be sure. He was hers and she was his, at least for the moment. When legs and arms and eyes and hearts were disentangled they went their separate directions and lost themselves other ways. There's something to be said about the bottom of a rocks glass or the end of a bloody knife.
Something to be said, indeed.
They'd done it all, knocking boots even in the most literal sense when hers had hit his during an imbalance induced fall. The irony that he'd caught her and picked her up off her feet was not lost on her.
Their relationship was primarily based on sex. Often, enduring, and occasionally sandy. Even after, when something had changed, it was still about sex. Because demons you know, they lie and you shouldn't trust a word from their mouths and what better way to cope than losing yourself in sweat and soft panting breaths and purring. For a while it was just a means to an end. He saw her eyes and smiled, she touched his soul and he tingled.
It was mutual, but far from love.
She was broken, a bruised demon on shore leave from the home she was inevitably going to return to -- that was the thing about helping Winchesters, fickle fickle boys for all their faith -- but she wasn't meant to be on Earth as it was, she'd abandoned that so many years ago.
He was equally broken, a barely holding it together transgenic who hid it all with a smug grin and an ease about him that was rarely lost, even in the face of death -- his own of course; others mattered, he didn't. He was a rare breed, a god among men, but no one worshipped him and that was his saving grace.
There were no birds singing or trees dancing or mice sewing a dress. There were no fireworks or sparks or candlelight dinners. There was sex and it was good and then it was just there.
Romancing was an art lost on both of them, roses and fine wine discarded in favor of toe tags and already tasted slices of red filled pie.
There was something selfish in it, to be sure. He was hers and she was his, at least for the moment. When legs and arms and eyes and hearts were disentangled they went their separate directions and lost themselves other ways. There's something to be said about the bottom of a rocks glass or the end of a bloody knife.
Something to be said, indeed.