You can smell it in the air, hidden beneath the musk and wild sweetness of sex; he doesn't love you.
Not a single word will leave his plump, soft lips as you thrust into his all too willing body, taking what you can, ignoring the rest. No, he'll never be yours, but at the moment you just can't bear to spare these painful thoughts more than your brief acknowledgement. Right now he's yours, moving under you, forcing your bodies into a rhythm that is foreign to you and means everything to him.
His soft voice tickles your ears as he laughs; it's a wild sound, a free sound and for a moment you think you could almost, maybe forget that you aren't lovers and what you're sharing means nothing at all. But what does it mean anyway, that flimsy curtain between wishful thoughts and wistful reality? Soft mewls, the sound of skin slapping against skin, they bind you together even if nothing else does. Every now and then you try kissing him and you'd enjoy yourself if it wasn't for his lack of response; fucking is safe ground. You can fuck a friend, a foe, someone you don't care about at all, but you'll forever be denied the soft, wet flick of his tongue, welcoming you into his mouth.
You're not welcome.
Realising this, you have to hold onto every tiny bit of self control (self preservation in this case) that you can muster. The last you realised all these things, the last time you were too rough with him he just burned your hair. This time he might not let you go. He could drag you under into his own personal hell of fire, thick, suffocating smoke and wild red hair to match the scene.
What does he see in that guy other than the physical (human) manifestation of his powers? Perhaps nothing more but a vague shadow of the past, a face you can't forget, no matter how hard you try.
"I love you."
And it's quite all right to say that when you're using his body as a container for your passion. He knows anyway.
Yes, everything's all right.