You're hard enough to talk to

Ecstasy pulsed through your veins as it happened again. John was in your bed again, under you, moaning, scratching, and pulling at the blonde locks on top of your head. Wincing, you bit back, sucking on his neck, never leaving a mark, never being allowed to. He wasn't yours after all. He never would be.

Each night that you did this, it was quick, without warning, and filled with nothing but lust. Each time it ended the same way, with you feeling broken, lost, and more in love than you ever wanted to be.

But here you were again, with your hands on his hips, as you rammed into that tight heat that made you dysfunctional, sick, and in love. Biting your lip as you rutted against him, his moans doing things to you that you could never imagine anyone else's could. That is because you would never do this with anyone else. John was your one and only, and he knew it. It was an unspoken thing between both of you. Something that you knew would never come up, no matter how much you wanted it to. He was impossible to talk to after all, this subject was never spoken aloud, it just happened. It happened every time Karkat, and him got into a fight, every time he got kicked out of the apartment, every time they broke up. He was at Dave's, then they were kissing, then his pants came off, and then you were having sex. Talking was out of the question, and god you wished it wasn't.

Every time you wanted to say something you would lose track, getting lost in the feeling of him against your body, every time you wanted to talk the feeling of his lips on yours would stop you. Every time you wanted to stop kissing him the sound of him moaning your name would wash such things away. Each touch would capture you, you were wrapped around his finger and you knew you always would be, and so did he.

He moaned, you grunted, he came, you yelled, he screamed. You collapsed. His body was warm against yours as he held you for a moment. You took in every second you could, this was the only time he ever let you hug him, let you show any affection other than lust toward him. It wasn't complicated that way things wouldn't fuck up your friendship, but you both knew it already had. Perhaps that's why he refused to talk. Kissing along his chest you tried to keep him there for as long as you could. Knowing your time was limited. Wasn't it always?

And before you knew it he was getting up, ignoring you again, as you were left to watch his sun-kissed back as he pulled his pants on, as you lit a ciggerate. Pushing it to your lips to hide your frown, shades back on, as you tried to keep your composure. Tried to keep your mind in check, keep it from breaking you. The nicotine helped, soothing your nerves that were on fire. The beating of your heart was frantic as your circuits tried not to catch fire from the heat that had your nerves scorched. It was hard to breathe, though you weren't sure if that was from the smoke, or more than likely the fact that John was leaving again, walking out the door in a matter of minutes, that goofy smile on his features as he did so tugged at your heartstrings, forever a puppet in his marionette of tangled threads, and broken hearts. You were the only one that stayed. It's been nine years since you met John, and eight years, three hundred and sixty four and a half days since you fell in love with him.

The only problem was that John didn't love you back. It wasn't a big fucking deal, you knew you'd never tell him how you felt. There was no point; after all you knew you fit the supporting role far better played someone who didn't care, someone that never tried to get the man you loved, instead you stayed on the sidelines, watching as each and every person took turns. Leaving him eventually, and each time he'd come crawling back to you, in a flurry of passion, and built up frustration things like this would happen. You would never have his heart, no matter how hard you tried. And lord knew you tried. Every year, every day, every break up you tried. Nearly pleaded, begged him. This is how you ended up here after all. Alone, used, and naked in your bed, as you killed lung cells with a cancer stick between your lips.

Your name is Dave Strider, and you were helplessly in love with a man that would never see you as something other than a toy.