Just a little. And that's where the real danger lies in this liaison. Not in Encke fucking him just little too hard, not in Keeler flying off the handle and flying them into a murder-suicide; in atttachment, in love. That's never been an option between the two of them, and Keeler had assumed that they were on the same goddamned page with that sentiment. And yet, the scathing reprimand -- you fucking selfish idiot, Encke -- dies on his lips the moment he realizes--
Hell, what chance did they really have? Were they going to skate by on cuddling and silent sexual tension until one or both of them died? It's not entirely realistic to expect a void of emotion when Encke is so damned sweet and Keeler is so unforgivably clueless.
Fuck it. It's not worth considering. Not right now.
The grip around Encke's cock is unyielding. Even in after the ache began to ebb, even as Keeler found solace in the wrap of Encke's hand, that tightness remains a vice. Because the contrast of their bodies was bound to drive them mad from the start, bound to have them both at odds and battling euphoria down to the last contrary thread. Because despite the passing pain, Keeler is so completely filled, and it's hard to focus past the sensation of that completeness. He rises to it, writhes with it, moves against Encke to meet him and take him deeper with each thrust. To welcome him with beckoning arms and splayed legs and a willing body that feels as if it's been constructed as an offering for Encke. They fit together. They move together. Together in near-perfect harmony, every bit as impressive as their sync and their flights.
And Keeler's smiling. Inexplicably, for no reason he can rightly place, he's smiling, and that's every bit as intoxicating as the honey-sweet mewls that betray him each time their bodies come together. A pornographic cliche from the very vision of purity, and Keeler makes it look and sound so beautifully sincere.
"Oh fuck, Encke," Keeler manages to breathe between shuddering whimpers. "You-- Fuck."
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Hell, what chance did they really have? Were they going to skate by on cuddling and silent sexual tension until one or both of them died? It's not entirely realistic to expect a void of emotion when Encke is so damned sweet and Keeler is so unforgivably clueless.
Fuck it. It's not worth considering. Not right now.
The grip around Encke's cock is unyielding. Even in after the ache began to ebb, even as Keeler found solace in the wrap of Encke's hand, that tightness remains a vice. Because the contrast of their bodies was bound to drive them mad from the start, bound to have them both at odds and battling euphoria down to the last contrary thread. Because despite the passing pain, Keeler is so completely filled, and it's hard to focus past the sensation of that completeness. He rises to it, writhes with it, moves against Encke to meet him and take him deeper with each thrust. To welcome him with beckoning arms and splayed legs and a willing body that feels as if it's been constructed as an offering for Encke. They fit together. They move together. Together in near-perfect harmony, every bit as impressive as their sync and their flights.
And Keeler's smiling. Inexplicably, for no reason he can rightly place, he's smiling, and that's every bit as intoxicating as the honey-sweet mewls that betray him each time their bodies come together. A pornographic cliche from the very vision of purity, and Keeler makes it look and sound so beautifully sincere.
"Oh fuck, Encke," Keeler manages to breathe between shuddering whimpers. "You-- Fuck."