Author: Chicklette PM
Jasper Whitlock Hale has spent his life fighting. Fighting a war, fighting with Maria, fighting for Alice, fighting who he is. How do you stop fighting when it's all you know? Darksper, M for sex, violence. One-shot.Rated: Fiction M - English - Jasper - Words: 3,334 - Reviews: 36 - Favs: 48 - Follows: 7 - Published: 11-16-09 - Status: Complete - id: 5514944
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Her body is lithe against the pole as she arches her back, sliding and twisting to the beat of the music thudding through the air. Her arms lift in time to the guitar solo, waving and weaving, her short blonde hair, possibly a wig, flipping against her cheeks as she tilts back, grasping the cold metal pole. She dips down, flash of white panty, then pushes off, and it's heels to the ceiling as she locks a leg around the rod before twirling deftly down, onto her back, legs spread wide, breasts bouncing, firm and smooth and I want them in the palms of my hands.
She smiles, her mouth full of innocence but her eyes promise other things. My mind reaches out for her, gliding past the men at the bar, whose lust overwhelms their avarice only occasionally. I feel her own greed, her disdain for the men she serves, the job she does, and also…something…pride? She's enjoying this, holding these petty men of small character in her thrall.
I wait for her to meet my eyes. The tempo builds and her movements become deft, a flash of white here, a flirt of pink there, and always the blond hair skimming her shoulders. She's the color of honey: lightly tanned limbs, gold on her mouth and painting her eyes. Ahh…finally she sees me.
I catch her gaze, send her waves of desire and then stretch my mouth into a slow, sexy smile. My dimples come out to play, and the corners of my eyes crinkle. I look down for a moment, then back up. Embarrassment mixed with desire. She feels me, wants me, is intrigued by me. I stare at her, her eyes, and they go wide as wave after wave of desire hits her.
Before she can stumble, her song is over. She leaves the stage, delicate steps in shoes that arch her foot and push her legs into beautiful, unnatural proportions. She plucks singles from her g-string and slips a filmy white robe over her breasts, covering them from my sight. For now. The robe is fringed with white feathers, and they skirt the tops of her thighs, fluttering, fragile, teasing me with views of her flesh, so smooth and soft looking. I bet she smells like candy.
She approaches me within moments of leaving the stage. She carries a small silver box that I know without looking is filled with money: twenties and singles, the odd fin. I'm guessing there's a condom, somewhere near the top where a customer can see it and jump to conclusions. I look down, playing my shy role for her, sending her both desire and comfort. She radiates a sense of safety as she approaches me, which in turn increases her desire.
We talk. I allow her to order very expensive drinks and in a few minutes, we are in a small private room and she's pressed against my lap. I am not allowed to touch her and so I don't, but the heat from her body burns me through my jeans. I was right: she smells like candy, sweet and just a little bit tart.
She grinds herself against my thigh, her breasts pushed up against my chest and I hear her breathing hitch. She is relaxed enough to be excited, and her excitement feels so good that I have to look away for a moment. She mistakes this for more noble intentions, and I'm glad.
"If you want, I could meet you later," I say. My hands stay at my sides but she can see and feel my hunger for her. I am unrestrained in the waves of desire that I send to her. She leans in and I breathe out, pushing my scent at her, willing her to say yes.
She smiles, considering, weighing the ache between her legs, which she has never felt within these walls, against every instinct about strange men that she's had to learn in her twenty-odd years.
I look up at her through lowered lashes, smiling just enough for my dimples to flirt with her. Her heartbeat races and she agrees.
"I get off at two," she says.
"I'll come back." There is a brief conversation covering logistics and I stuff some money into her hands. It's enough for her bosses, but not enough to make her feel like a whore. I leave without looking at another girl. I got what I came for.
At the end of the night I wait for her. I sit on the trunk of my car, elbows on my knees, looking deep in thought. I hear her, smell her, a block away, and I count her steps as she approaches. When she is close enough, I look up and smile, then lower my lashes again. I am such an eager puppy; I am exactly what she needs.
I approach her, sudden confidence, and take her in my arms. She meets my eyes, feeling fear, but my gaze, my scent, my hands on her soothe her, and in a moment she's pushing lust back at me. We stumble toward the brick wall, deep in shadows, sheltering night, and I begin to kiss, to touch. She is eager for me, and her hands falter for only a moment at the cool mass that is my body. Nothing yields.
My hand is on her breast, between her legs, pushing them open, pushing up the slip of skirt, tearing away the scrap of panties. She is hot, so hot, and it's almost my undoing, sliding my fingers into all that heat, slick with need, her heart pounding. She arches into me, soft and fierce and utters a low moan. I swallow back the venom. I want her so badly in this moment that I almost can't wait.
But I do.
She's shuddering, shimmying around me, holding tight and moaning yes and please and oh, my god. I push her up against the wall, dip my knees, and I am inside her. Blinding ecstasy as I glide inside, so hot and searing and smooth and tight and soft. She moans and clings, her breath coming hard and fast. She is so close which means that I am so close and I push her harder, faster, because I need it and I can't hold out very much longer. Her heartbeat races and I feel her body growing taut, her soft heat clutching me and I lower my head to that one spot, the sweetest spot. As she explodes around me, my mouth opens, dripping venom. My teeth are gentle, grazing things, slipping through the flesh and I spill into her as she spills into me.
The hot spurt of blood in my mouth is exquisite. She tastes so much better than she smells, so much better than I could have imagined: clean and sweet, like an apple to a man dying of hunger and thirst. Her orgasm pumps her blood through her body, gushing it sweet into my mouth and I swallow, swallow, swallow. The tide of her body, the ocean of her blood consumes me as I chase her heartbeat down, through the blood, sucking and licking, painting my tongue with the deep crimson of her life. In this moment, I am alive. I am pure in my being, the ultimate incarnation of what, of who I am.
I am free.
I swallow again and every nerve in my body stands at attention. It's almost painful, the pleasure she's giving me. I hear the fabric of her shirt tear in my hand as I crush her closer to me and she presses back, molding her body to mine. Her heart pounds. Her hips flex. Her breath catches and then she softly moans and her body becomes limp in my grip.
I groan. She's almost gone; it's almost time to stop. I feel her heartbeat weaken, falter, but she's given me what I need.
My suckling becomes gentle as I ease her down into her death. My fingers stroke her hair, her face. I cradle her gently in my arms. With a shudder she surrenders the last of her gift and I take, also with a shudder. I pass her gently to Charon, who ferries her away.
It is without thought of the future that I dispose of her body. It troubles me deeply that her family will never find her, never be able to say goodbye. Mourning is an important ritual in human culture, but this cannot be helped.
I carry her to the same wooded area where I carry them all. All of my "mistakes." I am in the zone; I am a creature of habit and of machination and my beautiful disasters are seamless from beginning to end.
It's almost dawn when I'm done. I've disposed of the body, the car, and am running home. I know that tomorrow I'll feel it: the guilt that is waiting to consume me, the ebb to the flow from the tide of blood that I've consumed.
Somewhere, Alice is already running toward me, her hunting trip cut short by a vision, no doubt, of my personal failings. She will cuddle me, coddle me, and call me Jazz. I will allow it all, her light frame climbing, clinging, leading me forward to her vision of our future, created not from her gift, but from her heart, her need. I will let her hold me in her own thrall, and I will make promises that we both know I can't keep.
Finding Alice, or rather, Alice finding me, was a blessing or a miracle. It was a curse, or a prophesy. It was both the beginning and the end, but at the time it was salvation.
She approached me, her tiny figure moving with grace through the very creatures for whom she should hunger. She said "I thought you'd keep me waiting forever."
I smiled, dipped my hat and called her ma'am. She smiled, and slipped her hand into mine and led me away. That night she held me close, wrapping her body around mine, spinning my heart with her whispered web: words of holiness, of peace and comfort. Of home.
Unspoken was the price for this comfort, though after a century of warfare, I would have paid any price she'd asked. I didn't realize she'd be asking for the key to my soul.
Decades later fate finds us at an impasse. She urges me to try harder, so I do. I urge her in silence to understand my need, and she can't.
The first time it happened, she cried. There were no fat tears of condemnation, just her shoulders shaking with dry, heaving sobs that no amount of apologies could quell. I wanted to tell her that it wasn't about the sex. It wasn't. How could I explain to her though that the sex made it easier? That they took death easier when it came cloaked in pleasure. That they didn't need to feel fear, only passion, in that moment.
Morality never entered into my decision to feed only from animals. It was the fear that my prey felt. Their terror spurred my guilt. Decade after decade of their horror, their profound sadness at all of the things they'd left undone in their lives, thinking that they still had time. The overwhelming rush of emotion was more than I could bear.
When Alice suggested that there was another way, I tried it. When she comforted me with her body, I accepted it. When she quelled my fears with the sweet promise of her visions, I surrendered. By the time Alice found me, all of the fight was gone; I was merely existing.
We'd been together almost five years when I ran into Peter and Charlotte. They were intrigued by the Cullen's chosen lifestyle, by my choice to accept it, and Peter made an off-hand comment that shocked me. He said "why don't you just use your gift to take away their fear?"
The question haunted me for another five years before the opportunity to try it out presented itself.
I was in Maine, taking care of Cullen family business, when I passed by a woman walking alone, late at night. I hadn't fed in days and the scent of her, fresh and thriving, almost brought me to my knees. There was very little forethought on my part. I began to follow her and when she dropped one of the packages she was carrying, I retrieved it for her. I threw wave after way of comfort and desire at her, and within minutes she was allowing me to escort her down a darkened alleyway, where I teased her to orgasm with my fingers just a second before I took her life.
When it was done, relief washed through me. I was whole again, the stabbing ache in my throat, my constant companion for a decade, finally sated. And she had felt no fear. No pain, no regrets, just pleasure and serenity, and I was able to swallow those emotions from her as I swallowed her blood.
It wasn't until I returned to my hotel, eyes hidden beneath the brim of my hat, that I saw the telephone message from Alice. When I called, she was frantic and damning, her shaking sobs my shackles, her whispered words of why, my judgment. I returned home immediately, all too eager to pay the price for my crime, serve my penance to earn her forgiveness.
Despite her pleas, despite my promises, it happened again. And then again. Thirteen times it had happened over the span of sixty years. Each time, Alice took me in and took me back. The Cullens tried not to pass judgment. Only Emmett succeeded. Esme feared for the safety of her family. Carlisle was a mass of pity. Rosalie condemned me as weak, she who had never tasted human blood. As if she could possibly understand its power. Edward gloated, smugly superior, as always. He might pretend to himself that he hadn't lived on the blood of humans for a decade, but occasionally he slipped, and his fear, deep and searing, came through. He hungered for their blood too, every day. There were moments when he was envious and because of it, there were times when I allowed the memories of their blood, their peace, to drench my mind, all but screaming it at him. He was both grateful and disgusted.
I admit that both reactions pleased me.
Then there was Alice. Alice and her visions, which I had come to discover were often half-truths, guided more by her heart than her gift. She was convincing in her certainty, steering us toward the outcome she desired, often neglecting to tell us of the other paths, the other possibilities.
When we'd first met, it was a relief, having someone else make the decisions for a change, giving over and following after so very many years of leading. Now, it feels like a manipulation. Especially since so many of her prophecies had failed. Like me. Like tonight. My resentment simmers to the surface again and I beat it back, push it down. It's time to end this fight.
I'm still fifty miles outside of Forks when I hear her approaching. Without a word, we change course, heading deeper into the woods, teetering on the edge of Canada. Years ago, we'd found a quiet space for ourselves, where we could be alone and I could feel just her and she me. In earlier days, it was where we went to find peace. Now, it's where we go to fight.
I slow as I near the clearing, a wide, flat rock nestled inside a protective copse of trees. I come to rest on the slab of gray, folding my legs, arms resting on my thighs. Alice approaches, standing before me, a mess of anger, concern and disappointment. Her emotions soak me, sucking me under, into their tide.
I wait for the scene to play out as it has the last ten times I'd "slipped." The recriminations, the apologies, the promises. We've done it all before, and I'm tired of fighting.
"Jazz," she begins.
"Alice, don't." I shake my head at her.
She peers at me, her golden eyes so expressive. She feels as though she's failed me somehow. Again. She doesn't understand: this is who I am.
We sit in silence, her eyes pleading with me, and mine with her.
This is who I am.
Try harder! Don't you love me enough to try?
Don't you love me enough not to ask?
I love you too much to let you fail!
And I love you too much to lie.
"Aren't you tired?" I ask. Because I am. I am so fucking tired.
She tries to shake her head but instead, just looks down at her feet.
"The hawk hunts the dove," I say. "It's how we were made. It's how we're meant to be."
"I don't believe that," she whispers. "It's worth the sacrifice, to stay together, to stay in one place. We're a family."
"Come away," I answer. "Come away and we can travel, we can see the world together. Come away and be with me."
Her voice breaks. "Stay."
I shake my head and gather her in my arms. I pick her up, her bottom resting on my forearms, her small legs wrapping around my waist.
"I can't," I whisper against her ear. "I can't fight anymore. This isn't who I am, who I was meant to be."
She says nothing, only clings tighter to my neck, her legs fast around my waist.
The night marches past, the dawn visits and then the sun hangs high in the sky. Still we sit, clinging to what we want, and what we know we cannot have.
There are stars in the sky before we move, and I am the first to break our embrace.
"I love you," I say. I owe her this honesty.
She nods against my shoulder.
"You find me again, you know," she says. "One day, you'll come back for me."
I don't know if this is her vision or her dream. Perhaps a willful combination of both.
"Will you come back to the house?" she asks.
I shake my head. Goodbyes will only make this harder. I don't have to be an empath to feel her sorrow. It's laid bare across her face.
"Carlisle and Esme will keep your things for you," she says. "We'll keep them."
We. She's made her choice. A smile ghosts across my mouth. I always knew what her choice would be. She needs a different kind of peace than what I can give her.
With a last embrace I turn and run. I hear her running back toward Forks and I…I decide to visit Montana, perhaps work my way over to North Dakota. The fall is coming on, but even if it wasn't, I wouldn't care. I no longer have a place in the sun.
The night air slips past me, the caress of an old friend. I smile against the wind, feeling – finally! – free.
AN: My love and my thanks, as always, to FarDareisMai2, for pre-reading, and krismom for her awesome beta work. At this point, any errors in this work belong to me, and me alone.
The Cure, Depeche Mode and Jane's Addiction helped me narrow down my ideas for this. The traffic on 580 gave me time to think, and Dirk gave me space to write.