FML Contest

Title: Asymmetrical Hues

Pen name: StarlightSuccubus

Characters: Bella/Edward

Disclaimer:All copyrighted, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.

To see the rest of the entries in this contest, please visit the FML C2: http://www . fanfiction . net/community/FML_Contest_Fics/77195/ (remove spaces for link to work)

Summary: He is my lazy brother. She is my perfect wife. He is a brilliant painter on drugs. She is an erotica writer in disguise. At 7:43 a.m. I leave for work and they stay wrapped up in their little bubble of art. Written for the FML contest.

We are young and different.

But we're brothers.

Different brothers.

So different since our origins.

Edward is younger and adopted.

I am older and biological.

Edward is an idealist and a dreamer.

I am a realist and pragmatic.

Edward is poor and idle.

I am rich and hard working.

And even though there is this magnitude of shades between us, I still support his every decision, his every move, and overall play my role as the big brother because that's what is expected of me.

But I cannot help but think that sometimes life is not fair. Edward is one of those that was born a winner. A natural leader meant to succeed. Me, on the other hand, I am successful, an achiever, but I have worked hard to get there. Edward doesn't move a finger and he gets everything he wants in life.

But I bear a secret.

Pastor Emmett says that I am jealous, that I should be happy for Edward, but I am not. My lips always curve into a smirk every time I see him fail. And my smile grows wider every time I win and he doesn't. After I have this internal explosion of glee, I feel ashamed of my reaction. It's natural; I adore the little bastard despite those disgraceful sentiments.

Tonight, we are at a college bar.

I am an Engineering professor; I am respected and loved by my students. Despite all of my flaws, I recognize that I am a good person, but not everybody is perfect. I am strict and want a peaceful and appropriate learning environment. I am a perfectionist and a creature of habit; I am the best of the faculty.

Many students greet me, others ignore me, but that is to be expected because those who ignore me are the lazy rascals that want a B without coming to class. Those are the worst kind.

And speaking of the worst kind.

This night I decide to invite Edward for some beers. I am lonely, but I am not alone, Edward is my friend, my wingman, and a ladies' man. That is one thing I envy, too. He always gets the good ones, but I do not complain, he is good company, too.

We are on our third round, which is on me as he has already run out of money. He elbows me, his beer in hand and his eyes on her.

She is a beautiful girl, one of the best I have seen in quite some time and she is looking at me. Not at the guy behind me, not at Edward, but at me. She smiles as I acknowledge her. I call the waitress, who is flirting with my brother, and ask her for a drink. A red, sensual drink meant for my girl.

My woman.

As she receives it, she takes a sip, and walks toward our table. I feel nervous, fidgeting in my seat as Edward laughs and says that I should calm down. His words put me at ease. I blink once, twice, and she's standing in front of me, her red drink situated next to my beer and they look good together.

We look good together.

Edward gets lost after his brief introduction. He looks for the waitress and I look at my brunette.

We talk, we laugh, we flirt, and I take her home.

We kiss goodnight and I leave with her number and a promise to call her the next day.


Her name is Isabella.

Isabella is responsible and feminine.

All curves and pure and mine.

Mine and about to become eternally attached to me.

She is in white and I am in black and Edward is the best man.

We're standing in front of the altar.

In front of Pastor Emmett, who is regal, and pristine, and perfect.

Isabella and I have been going out for three years. Ever since the night at the bar, we have been seeing each other. I called the next day as promised, and the next, and the next, and the next, until we implicitly became a couple.

She drinks vodka and I drink beer.

Isabella is an English major and I am an Engineering professor.

She likes books before movies and I only like movies.

Isabella loves me and I love me and her together.

She is funny, and kind, and beautiful, and an achiever like me, but a dreamer like Edward. I overlook this trait because I know she is hard-working and she fills the void in my perfect life. Then again, not everybody is perfect.

We just complement each other.

It is the happiest day of her life.

It is a happy day, indeed.



I wake up at 7:05 a.m. as usual. I take a shower with cold water as usual. I dry with a black towel as usual. I dress in grey suit and white shirt as usual. I eat oatmeal and grapefruit juice for breakfast as usual. I grab my car keys at 7:43 a.m. as usual, but the phone rings and that isn't usual.

I pick it up, press the green button and there is a distant anguish on the other end.

"Brother?" asks Edward. "Is that you?"

"Yes, Edward. What happened?" I ask, my eyes rolling. I am anxious, knowing that these five minutes will make me arrive after 8:22 a.m. to work. The time I usually get there.

"I need a favor," he hisses in pain. I frown, worried for the first time.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"Yes, but…" He trails off and I am hating this suspense. I am worried and I am late, and he is not talking.

"But what? Just tell me!" I demand.

"I got into a fight." I groan. "And lost my apartment." I groan a second time.

"Fuck, Edward!" I shout at the receiver. "You need to grow up!"

"Listen dude, this is not the time. I only have one call." He shamelessly explains.

"So you need…?" I sigh.

"I need you to pick me up. That and… a place to stay," he says and I close my eyes. I no longer smirk at his failure, he feels like a burden. A burden I am willing to carry. He is the younger brother and I the oldest son, I remind myself.

"Where are you?" I ask desperately, wanting to hang up. "Isabella will pick you up."

"Jail," he whispers and I don't know if I heard him correctly. I ask him to repeat the answer.

"Jail." This time he speaks louder.

I only have one question in mind. "How much?"

"Seven grand." I groan for the third time, but realize that the money is not an issue. The issue is that he got into a fight, landed himself in prison, and is disturbing my routine. Disturbing the order of things in my house. Isabella is supposed to be going to tennis practice at 9:00 a.m. and returning home at 10:30 a.m. so she can have lunch ready at 12:00 p.m.

"Okay, hang in there. Isabella is on her way."

And I hang up.


I park my Volvo in the garage. Isabella's red Mercedes is still not here.

I groan as I remember that she is picking Edward up. She is late, there is no lunch in the oven or microwave and I curse bureaucracy, their slow-speed system, and their never-ending paperwork. The constantly dull mechanism of the hierarchic government officials is now permeating my routine with its vile structure.

I get into my car again and speed toward the campus diner, where I have lunch twice a week when I have classes.

My usual waiter looks at me with wide eyes; he knows I've broken my routine, so I just smile and shrug as I order my usual chicken broth with noodles.


It is dinner time.

I have been trying to reach Isabella on her phone but she doesn't answer. I start to worry, thinking that she might have had problems with Edward, but I sigh in relief when I arrive to my house and see her red car.

All the lights are turned on and laughter is coming from inside the kitchen.

Upon entering, I am received with a very shocking and unwelcoming image. Isabella and Edward are laughing hysterically on the floor, both are covered in flour along with the kitchen counters. I feel angry, but I try to suppress it, knowing that my irritation will only disturb the little harmony that remains in place.

"What happened here?" I ask instead.

They stop laughing, acknowledging my presence as they look at my face. I frown because they are looking at me as if I was the dirty one, but I know I have an impeccable figure. Simultaneously, they start laughing again.

I ignore them, as I place my briefcase in my chair, along with my jacket. The laughter does not cease and so I step closer to them, my grumbling stomach protesting for what I know to be grilled salmon and salad as it is Monday.

"What is so funny?" I ask louder. Isabella stands up, gathers a towel from the sink and starts cleaning her face as the laughter gradually subsides. Edward just leaves the kitchen, hiccupping and smelling of pot. My blood boils but I wait for Isabella to answer.

"I took my afternoon nap, and when I came to the kitchen, Edward was all covered in flour. He was attempting to bake a pie, but he didn't know that there was one in the fridge, so he attacked me and we ended up this way." Amusement colors her voice as she explains the funny incident. I want to find this comical, but I don't have the same sense of humor. I just nod, going to the stereo as I put on my favorite LP; Supreme Souls by Gary Conner.

I sit by the table waiting on dinner and Isabella is still getting everything ready. She is late once again. My stomach continues to grumble as I smell the amazing aroma on the stove. My mouth waters at the prospect of dinner. Edward sits down minutes later, all cleaned, and presentable.

"Dude, you still listen to this music?" He asks as my wife puts the bowl of salad in front of us.

"Yes, what is wrong with it?" I ask as I fix a plate.

"Dad used to listen to this shit and now you always, always have listen to it." Dad is a bit harsh with both of us, but more so with Edward.

"True, every evening he plays the same old songs," Isabella interjects as she sits at the table, a big plate of grilled salmon on her hands.

"See?" Edward talks with a mouthful.

"Well, I like it and I enjoy having dinner this way." I end the conversation.

We eat in silence for a few minutes before Isabella speaks again. "How was your day at the office?"

"Good. We closed the contract with Aro and Marcus." I say as she beams at me. "You?"

"Well, I picked Edward up, but they didn't let him out until after lunch. We were starving by then, so I took him to Lo Spuntino. It was good." She smiles at Edward, who is munching on his salmon, oblivious to our conversation. He is submerged in his own little world, dreaming as usual. "Wasn't it, Edward?"

"Huh?" he snaps and looks at my wife with hazy eyes, a bruise on his left one.

"Did you like lunch?" She repeats.

"Oh, yeah, lunch was awesome. The waiter was into Bella," he says before getting his mouth full again. Now I know he is definitely smoking marihuana.

"He was not!" Isabella shouts indignantly, "and it's Isabella, Mister. Not Bella, not Belle, or whatever."

He laughs, she laughs all over again and I want to vomit at the display. Isabella is always calm and collected. She laughs, sure, but not at the table, not over dinner, and certainly not with my brother.

"He was eying you, Bella!"



We are going to bed.

I put on my flannel pajamas and Isabella puts on a silk night gown.

I frown in confusion as I drag the cotton sheets aside. She drags herself toward me. I let her, we're married, it's only natural.

Soon she kisses me and I let go of everything. Her hands tangle in my hair and I am lying on top of her frail body. Her lips are silk, mine are paper, but she doesn't mind. My hand travels in between us as I discard everything that is in our way.

My dick is limp, but I try to stimulate, she stimulates and soon it is standing at attention. I grab our lube from my bedside table and apply it to ourselves. She is slick and hot and I am hard and we connect. I groan and she breaths deeper. It is too much, the friction, the heat, the warmth, the everything, too much.

Her little hands push me, I don't know what that means, so I just pant, "Wha-what?"

"I want to be on top," she breathes, but sounds composed. I nod, reluctantly flipping us over because I don't know if I am going to last. I am a frigid board trying to control my eventual release. I close my eyes, her weight on me feels strange, but I am buried in her and it's all that matters. We move, she frantically bounces, but it's out of frustration. I know it.

I try to arouse her, touching her clit, but to no avail. It only makes matters worse for me, as she clenches, clenches, but doesn't come. She is trying and I am failing.

I start thinking about work, about my life, about people.

It comes unexpectedly. I ejaculate inside of her.

She rolls over, exasperated and I clench my eyes shut.

We remain silent for a few minutes, while we contemplate everything. She is a good wife, a good woman, and never makes me feel bad, only good, physically and emotionally, even though I don't reciprocate physically.

And as she's good, we ignore what just happened, as she speaks, "I am doing a recompilation of all my short stories."

I groan because she shouldn't be writing about… those things. However, I don't say anything, not after I have failed her as a man.

"I talked to Edward today," she continues tentatively, knowing that I don't like this topic. "He says I should do it. He is interested in reading them, in critiquing, and I know for a fact that he is a genius when it comes to art and literature."

Blood boils, I feel jealous of my brother once again. I haven't felt this way since before Isabella came into my life.

"I don't want him reading your stories." I am commanding.

"Why not?" I look from the corner of my eyes. Her eyes are wide and big, doe-like as she is eager, a dreamer and I am a realist. A woman shouldn't be writing about immoralities.

"I just don't want him to." I don't elaborate further.

"But… who is going to read them?" she says, disappointment peaking in her tone. "You never do."

"And I won't." And I mean it.

"Then Edward should read them. He has offered, he knows about this," she pleads. "He reads, he loves the books I love, he loves the movies I love, he… he should read my stories. He really should."

I don't want to hear anymore about it. I just roll onto my other side and close my eyes.



It's been three years since I have been married to Isabella. It's been six months since Edward has been living under my roof.

He is lazy, never brings food to our table, and wakes up after lunch. He has asked for a large amount of money, affirming that he wants to open a gallery and create a patrimony of his own, but I don't know if it is for drugs or if he is being truthful. However, I always give because if not, what is he going to do. Either way he will fall and I will smile.

He has always been idle. He is bound to fail.

Lately, he claims to be on an artistic quest, and even puts a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on his door whenever he is painting or doing who knows what. I want to say something to him, he is wasting his time with his paintings, and his music, and his photographs, but Isabella doesn't let me. She says he's working on his project, and I just roll my eyes and say, "fuck the gallery".

But my wife argues that she understands him. An artist has to be left alone every time they have an inspiration strike. Some things I would never comprehend, so I just let them be.

In my spare time, I just think about people. My inept assistant, Pastor Emmett, and my waiter on the campus diner. All of them are great diversions, but not enough.

I am still somewhat disturbed.

I cannot sleep at 9:30 p.m. I cannot wake up at 7:05 a.m. and I cannot live my life as usual. As I comfortably like it.

I wake up, yes. I take a shower with cold water, yes. I dry with the black towel, yes. I put on my gray suit and white shirt, yes. I have oatmeal and grapefruit juice for breakfast, yes. I grab my keys and leave for work, yes. But somehow this order has been corrupted. Edward has corrupted my comfort. Every minute is very valuable and he is making my routine into an unpredictable rollercoaster.

When I get home for lunch, Isabella isn't ready. When I get home for dinner, there's laughter in the kitchen. Mysterious papers with forbidden words are spread all over the dining table and she's wearing more silk to bed.

He is reading her stories, but they don't say a word. She is looking at his art, but they don't say a word.

They share secrets; his passion for the metaphysical bodies of art, her dream of publishing her obscene novels.

It is as if I am here and they are there.

We're not on the same place, because I am in a position where I don't belong anymore.

I don't belong in my own household.

He must not succeed without trying.

This makes me jealous and so I have to achieve.



Another Monday.

Another start of the week where I go to tennis practice, clean his house, fix his lunch, take my nap, and fix his dinner.

He is a good man and I realize that I am lucky to have him, but he is starting to make my life miserable. I know his routine backwards and that disconcerts me. He used to be charismatic, smart, different, mature, and happy.

He has turned into a robot. A robot living in a mechanical world. Everything is mechanical and pre-meditated. There is no sense of adventure or spontaneity. Not even behind closed doors.

Sometimes I wonder how it feels to be bold in bed. To share passion beyond the one I have known.

I am doing something wrong, but I don't dare to bring the topic to the table because it is not on his schedule.

This is why I keep my novels and stories. The place I can be me, explore my characters, and dream of an adventure. A place where she is daring, where he is giving, and where they both reach unimaginable levels of satisfaction.

And sexual pleasure.

I plan on writing one scene this afternoon instead of taking my nap. I need some form of relief from this stress.

However, my plans are thrashed as my husband receives a call from Edward.

He is in trouble, again. I must bail him out of jail today. I have a smile upon my face, but I roll my eyes playfully.

He is always in trouble, jumping from adventure to adventure, living his life to its fullest and enjoying his youth.

That must be nice.



We are alone in the big house.

My husband is on a business trip so he is not coming home.

Edward has a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the doorknob, but it is lunch time.

I tentatively knock but there is no answer.

I knock twice. Still no answer. I am going to return to my everyday activity, but he appears at the door. He has bed hair, sleepy eyes, and morning breath. He is glorious.

I stare, he tilts his head.

I keep on staring; he is curious and clears his throat.

I snap, offering a plate of sandwiches. He smiles, taking them away from my hands and inviting me in.

Everything is mute, because who needs words when one understands the other. He eats and I sit by his desk, looking at the surroundings. This is the first time I enter this room since Monday and he has already made it his.

All of his possessions, all of his paintings from his lost apartment are here with us. Some are a kaleidoscopic explosion of colors, some others are black and white. Some are abstract, some are defined bodies of women.

They are stunning.

Every single piece of art is unique and beautiful, asymmetric in hue, symmetric in texture, but it doesn't matter. Each painting shows life, life beyond what I know.

A life that I want to experience.

I watch him have the last bite of his lunch, and I have a sudden urge to fill the void and so I comment on his art.

"Your paintings are magnificent."

"Thank you," he says looking at the one of the naked woman. "I already sold some of my best."

"Well, these are pretty amazing, too." I am smiling, admiring him more with each painting I look at. He just shrugs, as if my compliment doesn't matter. I feel hurt.

"They are not what I was hoping," he stands up and fingers the kaleidoscopic one. "They lack something and I am onto that."

"What?" I am shocked.

"Yes, I feel like they are not mine. I feel like they were created by someone who is outside of my body." I just nod in understanding. "Sometimes, when rage invades me, I feel I must destroy them, but I don't. They have given me a roof and food."

I nod again. I can tell that he feels like talking. So, I allow him, I listen.

"My brother is right. I am a lazy son of a bitch. Literally." With this he laughs. "But if I am being honest, I am depressed. I am floating in a black ocean, I don't have a destination and I need an anchor."

"I need motivation, something that helps me wake up in the morning, so I can look forward and find my inspiration. I need innocence and mischief, not pressure and tainted, unoriginal ideas." He looks at me, straight to my eyes. I feel small under his scrutiny because I realize that he is beautiful. "I can't have a life if my heart, and my soul, are not in it."

I am transfixed for a minute before I speak. I struggle to find my voice.

"That… That must be frustrating. Sometimes, I feel like I am trapped in this body, in this house," I stand up and stop in front of him. "In this soporific existence and it makes me sick. It makes me want to vomit because I need to travel, to fly, and gather inspiration for my writing."

"You write?" he sounds perplexed. I nod, blushing furiously because only my husband knows of my novels. "Can I read them?"

I shook my head no.

I am very shy all of the sudden. I get carried away with my little speech and now I am paying the consequences.

He looks crestfallen. In an instant his face lightens, "I'll tell you what. You let me read them and I let you see me work, that way we can share ideas, opinions. We can critique each other."

I consider this for a second. He doesn't know about the nature of my literature and that's what embarrasses me. I need to voice this out because what is he going to think of me.

"Before we agree on anything, there is something you must know."

"Okay." I have his full attention. I am nervous.

"I have a collection of short stories. However, these stories are…" I hesitate. He moves his hand, urging me to continue. "These stories are for adults."

I don't know what reaction I expect, but I never expect him to laugh. Hysterically.

For a second I think he is making fun of me, but I know he is not. It is just one of those attacks he has like the one we had on Monday. After he composes himself, he smiles at me. I am relieved by his warm expression.

"I am very much looking forward to reading your stories, Bella." He extends his hand. I take it. It is calloused and firm and masculine. "I am very brutal, though."

"I like brutal."

And I know they are in good hands.

And I like my new nickname even though I don't admit it out loud.



I try to be daring, I wear silk to bed, but he doesn't get the hint.

I try to be daring, talking about my books after he gets sexual release, but he dismisses the topic.

My literature, his taboo.

My mind is blank and I feel like crying because these last days, Edward has shown me the bravery and passion one must possess to pursue their ideals. Their art.

I envy him.

I admire him.

I want him.



I have noticed that Edward is starting to wake up earlier. He also eats oatmeal and grape juice for breakfast but grimaces every time he sees the same food at the table.

We share a secret smile.

We also start talking about our wildest fantasies. I want to get published, he wants to own a private art gallery.

He encourages me, I encourage him but he says he lacks money. I tell him to ask his brother, he doesn't like the idea.

He is painting in his room, I am writing at his desk.

It is comfortable until he starts eying me carefully. I shift in my seat, not liking the spotlight. Trying to distract him, I stand up and walk toward him. I try to peek at his painting but he quickly covers it. We share a timid laugh, me knowing that I was writing about intercourse, but I don't know what his is about.

"Come on," I say, "show it to me."

He shakes his head. I pout, "Please?"

"Nope," he says, a playful smirk on his face. "This one is for my eyes only."

I groan, "But I have shown you private material. It's only fair if you do the same."

"I agree, but not this one," he says. I attempt to reach for the black cloth covering the painting but his body interposes between us. "I am entitled to have one for myself."

I frown and cross my arms over my chest.

"You, too," he adds.

"No," I say like a petulant child. He sighs and his posture relaxes. I have won.

"Okay, but you go first."

I quickly go to the desk and retrieve the papers. I blush as I realize the price I am paying to look at the mysterious painting, but I try to dismiss it. I am too curious for my own good.

He snatches my writing quickly, because he knows I am hesitating and he is afraid I might regret it.

I want to hide.

He's read my other stuff, but not this one.

Edward is silent, but I don't know if he's already looking over it or not. I cannot look at him.

It is after three seconds- I count them- when he starts to speak.

"He was kneading her breast, all soft and warm, heavy to his touch. He rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and she voiced her pleasure. He felt encouraged by her and pinched harder, her hips grinding against his clothed length." He reads out loud and I cannot believe he is doing that.

"He was so aroused by her reactions, his cock hard and aching to feel her. He imagined how tight and warm she must be. He couldn't resist the urge to know this for sure as he slid his finger over her naked stomach, slowly descending to her silky curls." His voice is hoarse, "Finally, he caressed her folds, touching her wet and eager skin. Her clit swollen with desire, but he couldn't halt there, as keen as he was to grant her release. He slipped a finger inside of her and groaned; she was indeed tight."

"Stop!" I cannot take it anymore.

"Why?" he utters. I finally look at him and see that his eyes have darkened, deep breaths emanating from him. His face is pale, and his lips are wet. I don't dare look anymore, because my sight will eventually follow the forbidden territory. "What's wrong with it?"

"No-nothing," I stutter.

"Then why did you stop me?" His voice is harsher; I want to cry from mortification.

"I…I am ashamed," I say in a tiny voice. One thing is for him to read it privately, the other to listen it out loud. I lower my face, but his fingers are on my chin, forcing me to look him in the eye. His breath is intoxicating, his close proximity intimidating, arousing.

"There is nothing to be ashamed of, Bella," his chest growls. It is animalistic and raw. "This is your imagination, your form of expression. This is the way you let out all of what is underneath this façade."

He puts his hand on my chest, just above my breast. Now I am heaving, my subconscious wishing that he would lower his touch. I place my hand on top of his to take it away because I am feeling, too much. My other tries to snatch my manuscript away, but he doesn't allow me.

"Her hand tentatively touched his length. Upon vocal encouragement on his part, she pressed her palm against him. He felt hard and excited as she stroked him over his trousers." He resumes, "his face showed pure unadulterated lust, lust he felt for her, raw desire that had been buried for years."

"Please." I say, realizing that his hand is still on me.

"Please, what?" he taunts.

I want to say, 'please stop reading,' but I restrain myself. Instead, my mouth says, "Touch me."

Because that is what I truly want.

His hand descends upon my breast and gives light feathery touches; my nipples are hard in an instant. I press my hand over his, pushing him for a rougher treatment. His hand closes around me in pure gratification. I moan and something within him snaps.

He retrieves his hand, but I miss his touch already. I feel hurt and alone.

"Give back my document, please," I say and realize I sound childish, again. He shakes his head once more, but doesn't move further. This unnerves me, he unnerves me. I try to reach for the text again, only this time our bodies touch.

My nerves are sensitive, as if on fire, as a hiss emanates from my mouth. He can't take it anymore, and suddenly everything happens in rapid succession.

His mouth is on mine, his fingers run between my brown strands and my hands are on the hem of his shirt. Pushing up, and up, and up until our tongues reluctantly let go and he throws the shirt away. He is hot, and cold, and hard, and soft, and sexy. He is inferno; an escape.

He is eager, pressing against me, wanting me, needing me. I feel desired, like a woman. Our mouths collide once more as I frantically unbutton and unzip his jeans. His masculine hips are narrow and I want to lick his muscles. But my mouth is occupied with his.

His hands are roaming in a frenzied battle, trying to rid me of my clothes and to discern my body. He has this urge to possess, to know, to feel, to be one. I know it, I feel it in my hands as I touch him, his chest growling again, as I squeeze and he twitches.

He is exquisite under my hand and so I hastily get on my knees, my mouth traveling over his chest, my lips caressing the path, licking his hip as I wanted to before I push his boxers aside.

He springs forward, all strong and beautiful. I look innocently at his face, my cheeks blushing at his predatory green eyes. He wants me more than anything and this gives me the audacity to stroke, to fondle. He throws his head back, masculine neck and jaw porn. I want to lick them, too.

His hands snarl through my hair, but restrain as I know he is dying to push me forward. Gentleman artist. I smirk at this, realizing that I have fatal power over him, even though I am on my knees. I tease, I touch, but to him this is not enough.

"Can I kiss it?" I ask ingenuously, again looking at his sinister green eyes. He groans and pleads. I concede as my lips descend toward his head. He twitches again under my gentle kiss, I smirk and swipe my tongue, earning more twitching and breathy moans.

After a few gentle touches, I envelope him in my mouth, my hand stroking his length as he unknowingly thrusts his hips in my direction. I place my free hand over his hipbone for restraint and he realizes what he is doing. His hands instantaneously come to my cheeks and gently caress.

I realize that my breasts are bare for him when he pinches my nipple. I moan with him in my mouth, and I know he likes it as he pinches again. My jaw aches, but I feel satisfaction in pleasuring him. He is responsive and eager, he is a man that wants me, that desires me, and that arouses me like nothing else.

He tugs at my hair and I look at him. He is panting, an animal unleashed as he brings me to my feet. His lips mingle with my swollen ones and we kiss while he discards my linen slacks. My underwear goes along with them and I am only in my camisole and bra, exposed breasts caressing his naked torso. Heavenly.

His fingers mimic my literature as he slides them gently, my nether lips welcoming him, my clit aware of his calloused feel. His touch is daring as he seeks my pleasure. His cock resting on my stomach, my hand closing over him as he pushes it aside.

"Too much," he whispers over my lips.

He pulls me closer by my neck, his other hand gripping my breast. We are frantic, hazily claiming skin.

He pushes me toward the bed, spreading my legs and unbeknownst me, licking me swiftly. I gasp at the foreign sensation. Nobody's ever done that to me and it feels delicious. He swipes his tongue again, and again, and again until I know I am close. Really close. I smirk and thrash knowing that this is finally it.

To my disappointment he stops.

I groan in frustration, only to find him lurking over me. He looks powerful, aroused, towering over me as he stands perpendicular to my body. He is beautiful.

"Please," I beg. He smirks. "Edward."

The motherfucker smirks again, but this time I reach for him and stroke. He groans with anger and desire. Taking my hand away from him, he rolls his hips in my direction and I gasp.

He is inside of me. Without warning, without previous notice, and he is stretching, filling me to the brim. It feels too much, too good, too… God!

He remains still for seconds, his hands caressing my calves as he places them over his chest and shoulders. I can't take it anymore. I need him to move, to do something because the pressure is torturing me. I thrust my hips and that is it.

"Fuck, Bella!" And he starts pounding furiously.

I feel every atom of him, every particle of our joined bodies as he takes me, possesses me. I wonder how I missed this. How it is possible to discover sex at my age. It feels… feels… otherworldly.

I am in my big adventure, covered in sweat and writhing in bliss beneath a mystical creature. We utter our names over and over and over again. He bends, his lips hovering over me, his cock deeper inside of me. I grasp and continue with my mantra; his name.

He is whispering dirty and incoherent curses and it turns me on further. Forbidden words I haven't known existed in the art of mating. This is beyond my wildest dreams. This is something I haven't realized could happen.

"You feel so fucking good," he breathes before his tongue plays with my earlobe. I moan. My hands run over his sweaty locks stuck to his forehead, our bodies rocking rapidly as he thrusts. My legs start to feel numb despite the blissful tingles in my pussy.

I place them at his sides, wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his perfect butt cheeks. It is coming again, and I know this time is inevitable. I am very much looking forward as I clench my legs tighter around him.

I am startled. And disappointed again, when he picks me up with inhuman strength and carries me to the red sofa in the corner of his room. Our bodies never separate, always as one. He sits down and places my knees on either side of him. I realize I have to move and I gasp as I know I am sitting on top of him. It feels different, but deliciously so.

"Fuck me," he says and I do. My thigh muscles move up and down, the sweaty skin of our chests sliding against each other. This position feels intimate, but I cherish it because he is adventurous, controlling but giving, and he is giving me the control this time.

I want to press against him, to be as close to him as possible, no particle of air separating our bodies as I move. His lips are at my jaw, my head is thrown back as my clit rubs against him. Now I know for sure that this is it. It will happen this time.

Edward groans at our close proximity, my nails digging in his back as he yanks us to the edge of the couch. He pounds against me harder, faster, and I cling to him, cling to him because my body is soaring, dragging my soul as wave, after exquisite wave, washes over my body. I want to believe in this feeling, but I cannot get the hang of this never ending sinful ecstasy.

He keeps on pounding and I take my time to regard. Edward grunts, and curses, and possesses. A very sensual image, the image of a man in need of a woman. Of a man all over a woman's body, primitive and raw. He comes inside of me.

We relax, a tangle of limbs, sweaty and boneless. We don't speak, we only breathe, our chests heaving, tired and satisfied.

He hasn't shown me the painting, but he's shown me something more meaningful.

I feel new.

I feel dirty.

I cheated.

I came.



It is Christmas day.

I am preparing dinner for three. Roasted ham and apple salad.

We are exchanging presents and I am sure my husband and Edward are going to love theirs.

He arrives home. Edward and I are already waiting at the dining room. I fix plates for everybody and we eat peacefully. Edward taunts with his foot under the table. I groan and give him a face. My husband is oblivious to this exchange as he is vigorously digging into his food.

I sigh in relief.

After we finish eating, we go to the Christmas tree that Edward and I grouped together one lazy afternoon after making love.

I feel guilty every time, but the pleasure and liberation it brings me weighs more than that.

There are six parcels under the tree. Some big, some yellow, some blue, some small, and one big red one.

We proceed in alphabetical order. First Edward, then me, and at last my husband.

Edward gives a present to his brother. It is blue and small. He cautiously opens it, and is thrilled to see that it is an expensive keychain for his new Aston Martin. It is silver and beautiful, Edward has good taste. My husband proceeds as he hands his present to me.

It is yellow and small, too.

I tear open the paper and see that is a moleskin notebook with my initials printed on the corner. I gasp in surprise because it means that he has come to terms with my writing. I hug him tightly and see that Edward's fist is clenched. I let go immediately, as if it is wrong to hug my husband.

I grab one of my parcels and immediately hand it to Edward. His fists unclench as he stretches his hand. It is wrapped in brown elegant paper. He tears the paper, too, and gasps. My finished and complete novel appears, my dedication highlighted.

'To you, Edward Cullen, always on my back, always there to catch me.'

His faces brightens, my Christmas is complete.

I look at my husband and he seems unaffected, only confused. Edward proceeds with the exchange and hands me the big red present. It has a card.

His eyes widen and his mouth tightens. I know the note is meant for my eyes only.

'This is a fake gift. The real one is upstairs… In my room.


I put the note in my pocket and tear the paper. It is the beautiful kaleidoscopic painting I've seen millions of times in his room. I smile knowingly, relishing the latest memory when he fucked me against it. I instantly feel culpable as my husband comments on the subject matter.

Edward explains as I guiltily wonder about my real gift.

It is my turn again; I give my other brown package to my husband. He unwraps it slowly, taking his time and not tearing a corner of the paper. He sees the contents and beams at me. It is an electric razor that would save him a couple of minutes in the morning.

He is delighted.

It is his turn, again. He takes a big yellow box and gives it to his brother. Edward tears the paper for the second time that night.

"Dude, you're awesome," he says half-heartedly. I know he is feeling guilty because the oil painting set he gave him is very nice and expensive.

He is becoming enthusiastic about our art.



Edward and I decide to stop our escapades, but to no avail.

We cannot keep our hands off each other.

I wear silk to bed, but do not seduce my husband, I sneak and seduce Edward instead.

So, it is inconceivable to stop. Not if my life depended on it.

We are painting the new place for his gallery. A wall is beige, another is white, and the back is black. He teases and spills paint on my clothes, I do the same and suddenly we are covered in colors. It is like the time we used flour, only more personal, more intimate.

We continue painting, quiet for a moment except the music playing in the background.

He breaks the silence, "I read your novel."

I stop painting. "And?"

"I touched myself while reading it."

At his serious admission, the spot between my legs tingles and dampens. I just breathe deeply.

"Do you touch yourself when you write them?" He is looking expectantly. I just shook my head no. I am a liar. He is disappointed. "Damn, it would be so hot."

The tension is lifted as we both laugh.

Our painting combat begins again and soon we're on the floor, crouching without air in our lungs.

For some strange reason, I want to say something about our pervious topic, something I know to be true, and so I say it. I have redeemed my lying.

"I only touch myself when I think of you."

In a second, he is all over me, his black hands leaving prints on my body. He is hot and eager, all hardness. It starts frantic, desperate as always, losing his mind because of his arousal. There is no way back, we start pulling clothes, grasping skin, and feeling.

But as we are about to unite, something in his eyes changes.

The air changes and he takes me gently, lovingly.

He cares for me, he is eager to seek my pleasure first, to know my needs, to know what is on my mind.

He is moving at a leisurely slow pace and I feel every ridge of him.

We come at the same time for the first time and I acknowledge something.

I am in love with him.



He must not succeed without trying.

This makes me jealous and so I have to achieve.

I buy red roses. A dozen, hundreds, millions.

I take them home, to my wife. Isabella.

The garage is empty, she is not home, and so I enter the house and I wait. I call to Edward, but there is no sound. He is gone with her.

They are gone together.

This angers me, but I try to suppress it.

I just think about people. My inept assistant, Pastor Emmett, and my waiter in the campus diner.

However, something in me knows that I must look for evidence.

What evidence? I don't know but I must look for something. A clue as to know what they are up to. A clue about their secret place, their secret sanctuary that I don't belong to, but that I want to.

I enter his room, because that is the first logical place.

I gasp. It is clean, his paintings are no longer here. I look around, in the drawers, under the bed, in his desk. There is only Isabella's novel. I scan over it and sinful words like 'cock' and 'sex' and 'passion' jump from the text.

My heart accelerates.

I desperately keep on looking.

I go to his closet and move everything around, a disarray of clothes and souvenirs and garbage until my eyes fell upon something.

A painting. It is covered, I unveil it.

I gasp again.

Isabella is sitting on a baroque chaise, a red sheet tangled between her legs, but her luscious breasts are nude.

His signature is in the corner of it, dated in December.

My blood boils.

I am falling.

I flip it over and see inscriptions in pencil.

'Merry Christmas Bella. This is the way I feel for you. The way I see you. The way I smell you. You are my muse, my fire, the object of my newfound inspiration.'

I throw the distasteful painting away. I am raging. I go to the living room and grab the roses.

I tear them, each and every single one of them. Petals are swirling in the sterile house, tainted ambiance.

Blood spills from my fingers, thorns and pain and distraught.

He loves her.

They are fucking behind my back.

More petals fly. I tear all the stems, all the leaves, all I want left is dust.

I don't want a trace of this red life.

The roses must die.

They must die.

My single-track mind leaves the destroyed flowers alone.

I climb the stairs, with big strides, one at a time, two at a time, three at a time, until I reach my room. I go to my closet and open my vault.

I find my silver gun there. Sparkling and powerful. I always clean it every Sunday afternoon even though I have never used it.

I return to the red covered living room. I wait for them, all manic.

Fifty three minutes later the front door opens and in they walk.

They are jovial and casually touching, unaware of my presence. Isabella is clutching a manila folder and Edward is carrying Chinese take-out. They are at their own secret place, only it is not secret anymore. I can see it clearly.

They are in love.

I clear my throat, making my presence known.

They whip their heads, eyes wide and surprised that I got home early. I smartly have broken my routine today.

Edward is the first to notice.

He pushes Bella behind his body, a protective stance.

"Du-dude?" he stutters the question. I want to laugh like an enthusiast.

"Yes, dear brother?"

"It is not Sunday. Why do you have that gun out?" he asks, fear is in his voice. Isabella is paralyzed. They know I know.

"Because you two are fucking lying bastards and I am pissed." My lips tighten as I utter those words. She gasps and peeks behind Edward's figure. My brother is at a loss of words, regret clearly visible on his face. Ungrateful motherfuckers.

Isabella can't take it anymore, and so she steps forward.

"Please… put the gun down." Her voice is trembling, "You will regret it."

This unnerves me. I stand up from the couch, taking long strides toward them. "And you don't regret ever cheating on me?"

The gun is pointing at her, Edward is moving her behind him again, but she doesn't let him.

"I used to," she answers. "I used to but not today. You are crazy and I want a divorce!"

She is no longer scared, adrenaline is flowing through her veins. She's defying, the manila threat in hand.

This request, however, is a very discomforting surprise.

"A divorce?" I laugh out of spite.

"Yes," she pushes her chest forward, her small frame disguised with power. It would have been intimidating if I didn't have the gun with me.

"You are an ungrateful whore!"

At my words, Edward growls like the brute animal he is, "Watch that fucking mouth!" he says between gritted teeth.

I ignore him as I continue to look at Isabella, "I have given you everything. A roof, the best clothes, the sports car, everything! What did I do to deserve such a whore like yourself?"

Edward tries to launch at me, Chinese on the floor, but I aim the gun at him. He stops in his tracks. He is furious, nose flared, flaming cheeks, and messy mop of hair. Isabella places a hand on his cheek reassuringly as she has collected herself.

I hate her. She is a red fucking rose and I hate her with every particle of my being.

"It is not what you did, but rather what you didn't." I am astounded at her calmed voice, "I gave everything I have to this marriage, I tried to be the perfect wife, I cleaned your house, went to tennis practice at the country club, I made your meals, I even tried to please you in bed, but you never gave anything to me."

I must shut her up. I can't listen, I don't want to. She continues.

"Material things? Sure, they are nice, but they are not enough. All I ever wanted was a husband, a person who would understand my ambitions, who would support me, who would be here for me, in flesh and mind, but you were always too busy thinking about work, about your lame routine, about succeeding. You forgot the initial spark we shared, the moment we were in love."

A bolt of lightning has fallen over me. She is disarming me with her words. Edward relaxes at her side. Tears protrude from my eyes.

"I didn't want to be with Edward this way. I didn't look for it, but it happened because he was tangible flesh. He read my stories, encouraged me, talked to me, held me in his arms, gave me my first fucking orgasm."

Her breathing is labored, she is exasperated. I am disarmed completely, even with a gun. I am jealous, Edward has won without achieving, Isabella has gotten her ultimate wish. I... I feel truly sorry for my dreary existence.

"I am so… I am so sorry Isabella." My voice trembles, and so does my hand as I place the gun to my forehead. I understand, I have failed as a husband, I am not perfect. Our life is not perfect. My lies are not perfect.

I cannot stand this existence.

"NO!" Both say in unison. In a second, Edward is on top of me, taking the gun away from me and hugging me tightly, apologizing and whispering that he loves Bella with all his heart, that he has the money for the gallery, and that he would pay me back. He wants to give Bella the home she has always dreamt of.

I hug him back, with all my might.

At that moment I am jealous again.

But I think of people.

I think of my inept assistant's girlfriend, Jessica, of Pastor Emmet's wife, Rosalie, of the girls that flirt with my waiter at the campus diner.

Of Isabella.

Because they own the people that I always think about. The people that provoke buried desires. They stir emotions within me. Feelings that scare me and that are bound to my tomb.

Edward is not a drug addict, Edward is lazy but he is a freelance artist, Edward is perfect in what he does. Edward screws up but he has the age for that.

Edward likes women, he loves her.

And I am living in a lie.

In denial.

Because I want to be perfect, but I am not.

I am not proud.

I have no pride, but I try to be happy for Edward and Isabella.

They have found each other.

But I am not. Not happy.

I am a good person, but I cannot feel joy for Edward.



Because I love him.

FML Prompt: "Today, I found out I was getting a divorce. My wife is leaving me for my brother, saying that now that he has money there is nothing that can stand in their way. I recently decided to send him money to help him get back on his feet. FML"

A/N: I apologize to my readers for not updating ISWI and WSOTS. I have not abandoned them; I promise they are next on my list. I been having trouble with my writing, but it seems that I am getting back on track.

Thanks to my ficwife and beta magan bagan, she makes everything readable. A big hug to ma' person Dawnie for giving me her support and invaluable opinion. You're the mastah of the wording.

That said, I hope you like this o/s and if you do, please vote. Thanks.

The first round of open voting will begin on 2/18.

Thanks. Reviews are welcomed and appreciated.