Without You

You’re the beat of my heart, the blood in my veins, the strength in my bones. None of me works without you. And if you need me to tell you every fucking day for the rest of our lives, then I will, because you are more than enough. You’re everything.

I love you more than my past. I love you more than the obstacles the present is throwing our way. Because you are my future, and I'm going to love you forever because you are my always.

Get on your back,” he demands. “I want you to remember my face when I fuck you. So you know exactly who you’re walking away from, and the man you better fucking come back to.

Are you asking if my dick likes dick?” “This is so fucking weird,” he mutters. “But yes, that’s ultimately what I’m asking.” “Well then, yes, my dick definitely likes his dick,” I say with a very practiced straight face.

His insecurities hurt me just as much as they hurt him. The idea that he would think himself to be anything less than the wonderful man he is pains me. He’s more than he or anybody else gives him credit for, and I’ve made it my mission to make sure he sees the man I see.

He might’ve had a piece of my heart, Deacon, but you own it. It’s yours till the day you say you don’t want it.” “Never,” I breathe into his neck. “I will never not want you.

Trust me,” I murmur. “Trust me with your heart. Trust in us.

It’s not a question, or even a statement, it’s a fucking revelation. I think I’m in love with you.

You think after the last two weeks, and the longest twelve hours of my fucking life, ” he says hoarsely, “you weren’t the first person I wanted to see?

The kiss is fueled with pain and passion as he spills his secrets into my mouth, and my tongue greedily hoards them for safekeeping. The regret. The guilt. The shame. I kiss him hard enough to forget them. I kiss him hard enough so he’ll remember me. With every swipe of his tongue, I feel understood. With every swipe of his tongue, I feel a little less lost. With every swipe of his tongue, I feel tethered to a man I can’t have. And with that last tantalizing swipe of my tongue against his, I know I’ll never be alone again.

How do you know someone for more than half of your life and feel nothing, only to look at them one day, and wonder how you got by without ever noticing them before?

But as I lift up the lid of my most prized possession, I realize my lifeline might just be the one thing that helps me drown.

Life ignites inside of me as I reacquaint myself with my old friends, need and want, adjusting to the thrill, succumbing to the risk.

I need whatever I’m feeling to not be real, I want it to not be real. I want it to be one of those things death makes up— like when you see something that isn’t there or feel things that aren’t true, just to fill up the empty holes tragedy leaves behind.

This wasn’t just about ridding myself of the huge anvil sitting on my chest anymore. Right now, I really just want to be around him. I want him to invade my space and push my boundaries. For the first time, the unknown is much more appealing than everything I thought I knew, and I love the way it feels. I love that I’m feeling something.

I may have been his big brother, but you were always his right hand.

Some days I wake up and I want to eradicate every single thing of his from my life. I want to erase every single memory and all our history. And then every other day I pray that I’ll never ever forget him.

When Dad’s close enough he pulls me into his arms, hugging me with everything he has. Even then, there’s little strength behind it, the hug a reflection of the weakness we’re all left feeling. My eyes fill with tears, because it’s one thing to know your parents love you, but it’s another to know you’re still never enough.

my heart expands exponentially. My love for him is unable to be contained; it grows daily. Endlessly. Always.

I love you more than my past,” he says. “I love you more than the obstacles the present has thrown in our way. Because you’re my future. And I’m going to love you forever because you’re my always.

You’re wearing too many fucking clothes,” he grunts. “Fucking winter.

Does any of this bother you?” I question.  “Does any of what bother me?” “The two dicks? The nakedness?” I feel him smile on my skin. He slides his hand from my waist to my chest, purposefully placing it right above my heart. “It’s about what’s in here,” he explains, tapping his fingers on my pec. “That’s what called to me, and that’s the only thing that matters.

Emotion gets stuck in my throat; how did I ever think this man was indifferent and unfeeling? Love pours out of him, like he’s been waiting his whole life to shower someone with it.

My body burns with every confession he sets free, and I hate him for it. I hate him for feeling the same, and I hate him for making it almost impossible to walk away. I hate him as I throw myself at him, because I know with absolute certainty, I don’t hate him at all.

Got something to say, Deacon?” I coax, knowing a witty response is on the tip of his tongue. There’s nothing but blatant lust in his eyes as they freely roam up and down my body. “I had no idea dick was so much fun.

Wanting to be around anyone is new to me; craving that invasion of space and time.

I want to slide back into my carefully constructed bubble where I didn’t feel any of this stuff—where I didn’t feel anything.

How did I ever think this man was indifferent and unfeeling? Love pours out of him, like he’s been waiting his whole life to shower someone with it.