beauty, decadence, and a little bit of guilty pleasure
John was her guilty pleasure. She wouldn't admit it to anyone, and if she did she'd have to kill them, but John Winchester was her guilty pleasure. Heels, John Winchester, and chocolate covered strawberries.
But John was sweet. He was sweet and he was soft and he made her feel warm so that was okay. John was five in the morning on a rainy day with whiskey in her lungs and coffee on her heart. John was more teeth than kisses and more pushing than caressing but John was good.
John was her guilty pleasure and she had a habit of splurging.
John was deliciously decadent and he was just a guilty pleasure.
(it was becoming a problem; an addiction, really but she couldn't find it in her to give a fuck)
John was always sturdy and strong and solid. Physically, which was very aesthetically pleasing for her - not that aesthetics mattered at this point. She was the sturdy, strong, solid one for them mentally. A divided work load. Nobody said anything about even.
Anyways, John happened to be a very stocky and beautifully built man. And he always smelled like cheap cologne and gun oil and sweat - which was gross but it smelt right on him - and his hands were big and strong on her hips and they sturdied her. Kept her from defying gravity and floating off with her heart.
John was sturdy. John was strong and solid and John was home.
He was more than a guilty pleasure.
(he fucks her on the kitchen counter and leaves the next morning but thats okay because she'll sit and wait and itch for her next fix)
John was midnight romance. She once watched a movie where girl meets boy but boy dies and girl is left stranded and confused and angry. She felt like that, except boy wasn't dead, just on the inside. She was stranded and she was confused and she was furious but she was madly in love and god, it's so fucking late.
John was more than just a guilty pleasure or a sturdy frame. John was electric. John was her drug and it was so fucking cliche but she couldn't get enough. John was electricity in the air, waiting for rain to fall. John was the onslaught of thunderstorms in her heart and the steady beat of rain on her mind.
John was madly in love with her. And she was madly in love with John.
Funny how things just tend to happen like that, huh? One minute she's bent over the bar with whiskey on her mind and the next she's madly in love with the man who had too many demons behind his eyes.
(she doesn't care; she cries when he breaks his arm and he screams in agony but she doesn't give a fuck because she's in too deep not to care now)
John was her guilty pleasure. John was midnight romance. John was home.
Most of all, John was hers.