Mostly because they'd agreed to no speaking.

No names, no curses, no promises made to be broken, no endearments. Just soft pants and moans that slip out before they can be held in.

Nails rake down a strongly-muscled and sweat-covered back that arcs in the pleasurepain, twisting in delight, a mouth opening in a silent scream.

A strong hand runs through dark brown hair, snagging as it hits bits and pieces that are still gelled together, twisting and grabbing tight, too tight, dragging down so that hungry lips can meet, teeth clashing, breaking through skin, mixing blood and saliva, running down hungry throats, never enough to satisfy.

Cold, dead bodies, writhing against each other in hopes of generating heat, a spark, some kind of life. Searching for comfort, having to settle for pleasure. Because that's all they have; there are no words.

No encouragements spoken, no reasons given for waking up the next day, just hands on cold flesh, wrapping around it, coaxing it to its cheap imitation of life. No assurances of a happy ending, just slick fingers finding an entrance, slipping their way through, stretching and preparing.

No reason or meaning, no explanation, no why, as the brunette slides into the blond beneath him, both hissing in pleasure, both suddenly silent, remembering, there are no words.

Hands clutch at bedsheets, angry at the agreement; his only visible protest thus far.

But larger hands work their way down sculpted, pale arms, and soothe angry fists, as they always do. Palms meet and fingers tangle, hands are held as they near completion.

Words are never spoken, but their bodies always lie. No matter how rough, how punishing, how furious, how painful it starts between them, they never fail to end with a sigh.

And sigh they do, as two sets of eyes flash yellow, mouths moving one last time, forming words and meaningless sounds of pleasure that can never be spoken.

Because there's really nothing left to say.

~The End~