Bad Faith Agreement
By Kage Chikara
BAD FAITH Dishonesty or fraud in a transaction, such as entering into an agreement with no intention of ever living up to its terms, or knowingly misrepresenting the quality of something that is being bought or sold.
Their lips meet, part and meet again, desperate to suck the air out of each other, to devour each other's lives. Fingers find shoulders to cling to as bastions of safety, then throw caution to the winds and begin the process of tearing clothes off tall, muscular bodies, whispering caresses and stroking loving words over hardened flesh.
There are apologies in this that will be forgotten later, sharp words and sharper victories that brought delight earlier paid dearly for in hard kisses, sharp love nips that might take a collar or a cravat to cover. There are stifled laughs at ridiculous things, like a finger caught in a zipper or a hairstyle that refuses to change position, and then the laughter turns to cries of pleasure as they tug each other down, rolling across a bed that cushions and embraces them, that serves as a private world outside their public lives.
They each gasp a name--hopefully each other's--as they make contact, create sparks. There are moments of discomfort, pauses in the moments of vicious passion to remove an elbow from off hair or a knee from ribs. There is an element of struggle in this, an echo of things outside this room that they pretend they do not remember when they are together.
They writhe and moan and touch and caress and never slow down, never pause to talk or think, their connection written in flesh, renewed at night because it could never stand the light of day and if they are wise in nothing else, they are wise in this.
Then there is a familiar flashy bottle, the best money can buy, precisely heated to be comforting to the human anus, not an intrusion but a welcome old friend returning to light a passage home.
A slender digit down to the last joint, and this is not romantic or sexy but for the person doing it and the look of concentration on his face is so focused, so absolutely him that maybe you would forgive him everything, even never letting you top. He will make sure you are comfortable, at least. He would never hurt you, in this room.
Outside of it, you will tear each other apart.
Finally one opens the other up enough and the fingers come out. The package is opened, like a sacred duty to teachers and educators who lectured on safe sex and it is slid on, holding in the creation of life, but never the creation of love.
There is a brief objection about why it has to be black and ribbed and banana scented, but its overruled and the proceedings continue with a timely thrust that makes all thoughts of bad puns disappear into an epic moment, muscles not screaming in pain but lightly groaning in discomfort. The pleasure is in the mind right now, in the possessive nature of it, in the feeling of a lover's chest against the back, warm and smelling like familiar aftershave.
There is a pause. He waits, and slowly the body adjusts, the brain informs the muscles that this giant object inside is not foreign, but a lover. A foreign lover, one who can never be a friend, so perhaps the body is smarter than the brain in this.
They exchange kisses, and then movement, a slow rocking of the hips into the tightness and a few muttered pornographic exchanges and then a demand to not say those things, which are at the least improper. Another kiss, because what else can you do, and then more rocking and slamming and hands wrapping around headboard. The vocal cords regress even as the mind does, so that words become grunts and whimpers and whines.
He will not hurry it. If the beginning was a long rough hungry fight to this, then this is a dance across old grounds and the apologies are in the words, the caresses softer. There are promises made here that cannot be kept. There is physical pleasure, there are groans and the erotic words aren't improper, they're sexy. They're hot. You're hot. The whole world is one large conduit for heat and all of it flows under the skin. You are flushed and victorious. You have won a case, a battle, and best of all, no one must lose for you to do it.
Your body signals that the stimulation is too much, mental and physical, who knows which and you fall over the edge, into stars and sparklers and fourth grade, where people protect you and you can be a child who doesn't have to hurt anyone forever.
They lay and two pairs of arms encircling each other, a never ending circle. There is laughter, softer, and two voices speak of nothing, a seamless, never ending conversation.
7:30 A.M. Apartment of Phoenix Wright.
The alarm trilled loudly and Phoenix sat up, cursing it roundly before realizing it wasn't his.
Edgeworth was already up, and he just finished fastening his cravat, the rest of his outfit already on. Phoenix could remember literally jerking it around, so he was somewhat startled that it looked as pristine as always. He rubbed his eyes. "You're going already? How about…I mean, do prosecutors eat breakfast?"
It was a lame joke and Edgeworth arched an eyebrow indicative of simple superiority.
"I have to finish compiling my evidence," he said simply. "I have court this afternoon." As if there was some way Phoenix could have missed this.
"You mean faking your evidence," Phoenix could hear the anger in his own voice and already whatever the created last night crumpled beneath the harsh light of day, a vampire, a creature of the imagination that cannot stand up to reality.
Edgeworth frowned and didn't answer. It should feel like a victory, but mostly Phoenix just felt like he wanted a few more hours of sleep. Sleep was completely painless.
"I'll see you tonight?" He asked, suddenly. It wasn't a question that was tolerated, really. They maintained a strict schedule that only Edgeworth could dictate. He showed up when he wanted to, and Phoenix was just supposed to be a good woman and go along with this. Well, not this defense attorney.
Edgeworth was almost out the door and Phoenix felt his heart convulse when the prosecutor didn't stop for a few steps, but then Edgeworth slowed.
"…What if I said, I'll be here if you lose?"
Phoenix glared at Edgeworth's broad manly back. He felt his anger boil up. Everything had to be a power game, a play for control. A fight to the finish. There was no room for anything real between them and he was an idiot to hope for it.
"Then I won't see you," Phoenix snapped. He pulled the blankets over himself.
"…Yes, you will."
By the time Phoenix pushed the blankets off to ask whether that was a threat or a promise, Edgeworth had gone.