mostly smut, some of them are quite kinky-ish, just check the individual chapter warnings. the first ones are probably bad, they're older.
more on my Tumblr @goblinontour
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Love doesn't even begin to cover it. Love — the all-encompassing, all-consuming, above-all-else feeling. Love doesn't feel adequate. Love doesn't even come near enough to describe it. To describe what this is, what you feel, what he is to you. Love is a shallow word, a placeholder, a stand-in for something bigger, something you can't name and never will. Will not be able to.
It was there, though. Love was there. From the first moment you felt him. The moment you touched him, and you wished, in the quiet, echoing depths of your soul, that you'd met him earlier. Earlier, because there will never be enough of him.
And maybe if you'd had another year, you could have settled for love. Another month, and maybe it would have been enough to fill the spaces he's carved out of you. Another day, and maybe you wouldn't be here, aching, wanting, needing more. Another minute, and maybe the hollowness wouldn't ache so much. Another second, and you might have been fuller.
Fuller of him.
Because every second he doesn't fill feels empty — even when they're crowded with the thoughts of him. Those haunting thoughts of him. They are heavy. They linger. They never leave. Because you won't let them. Because you can't bear to let them go, even when they so desperately fight to dissolve. To let him go, even in your mind, feels unbearable. Because you can't miss any more of him. You won't allow it. It would hurt more than hanging onto those desperate thoughts.
And the thought of goodbye? Nothing's worse than saying goodbye. Saying goodbye to him, even the him you keep stored away in your head. It feels a little bit like dying.
It feels worse than dying.
You don't miss him. You can't. He's here. His body beside you, his warmth in the bed. But you still long for him, as if there's a piece of him somewhere else, just out of reach. A part of him you'll never touch.
If love's not enough — will never be enough — then why? Why do you love him? Why do you love him so much that it splits you open and spills you out to make more room for him? Why do you love him when it hurts more often than it doesn't?
But then, he stirs. A faint, lazy shift beside you, and your heart lurches toward him. His hair is mussed, dark locks curling over his forehead, and you can feel the warmth of his skin before you even touch it. His breathing slows, evens, and your chest tightens. You lean in, closer than close, lips grazing the shell of his ear.
There is nothing to be afraid of.
"I love you."
The words come quiet, soft. You whisper them because saying them too loudly would only make it feel like acknowledging their insufficiency. Like shining a light on the void that still exists, even in love. So you keep them quiet and hope — hope — hope that they're enough. At least for him. Enough for him to understand a fraction of what you mean. Of what it truly is.
