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Panting breath, slick slide of skin on skin, a groan. "This is wrong," gasped into his ear and his fingers cling tighter, hips thrusting slower because when this ends, it means he'll have to acknowledge the truth of that statement. When this ends, he won't be able to use pleasure as an excuse for cold rationality. He bites his lip and hopes the night is a long one.
The body under his writhes and bucks, the thighs crushing his waist tremble. Lips find his and a voice moans in increasing demand for him to move, but he's not ready yet. He buries his head in a pillow, tries to ignore the way his heart is pounding and his body is on fire, swivels his hips just to hear the other choke on ecstasy.
Eventually, he won't be able to stop the onslaught of his orgasm. Eventually, the tensing of his lover will make his mouth drop open on a growl, will make him drive into the willing body with greater urgency and cause a chain reaction. A stifled cry, the baring of a throat as a head is thrown back in abandon, the bone deep shudder of release - it is his undoing. He spills and finds himself helpless.
Afterwards, this goes in either of two ways. The better way is when there is silence and he can crush the love of his life to his chest for an hour, a day. The better way is when they are so unwilling to face reality that they let passion overtake them again.
The other way ends with his lover sitting at the edge of the bed, head down and shoulders hunched in sick shame. The other way is silent too, but the silence is guilty and full of self loathing.
Sometimes there are words, though.
"We have to stop this."
"What happens when they find out, huh? What happens when...this, this thing we're doing, is discovered?"
"Why can't we stop this? Why can't we stop ourselves?"
"I wish we'd never given in to this."
"We can't do this again."
They all leave him with acid burning his throat and hands that clutch at emptiness. They all leave him with a sense of inevitability.
Because there will be a next time, they will never be able to stop themselves, he was always going to drive them to this. He doesn't say that.
He says: "I know. I don't know. I don't know. I know.
I know."
He does. He does, but he doesn't let himself care when it would mean giving this up.
He says: "I have never been more selfish than I am with you."
He says: "I would do anything to feel you here beside me every night."
He says: "I love you."
And his lover looks at him, and says it back, and he tries to ignore the tears that make silver trails in the moonlight.
They go home to their wives and children, and get on with their separate lives. He packs those nights of surrender (love pain desire greed) into the corners of his mind and forgets them, only brings them out when it's close to dawn and his own arrogance is close to choking him.
He lets them decay until the next time, when they're all together with their families and it's just the two of them on the porch, sitting next to each other with clasped hands hidden by the tablecloth. He looks into the eyes of his soulmate and lets everything bloom again in the forefront of his memory.
Ed smiles and strokes his thumb over the hand held in his. Al smiles back, resigned and tender and his greatest weakness.
This is the way it is.
think i want to expand on this idea but we'll see..also ofc the first thing i write in years is elricest, OFC