Sometime in the middle of the night I wake up sticky and gross with a note on my nightstand telling me to drink another glass of water and to eat a banana. I stare at it, dazed. Banana?

The fact that my father has been in my room—and very well might have seen the aftermath of my jerk off session earlier—doesn't even occur to me as I sit up and shove my traitor cock back into my boxers; it'd been trapped between the mattress and my hip.

I stumble to the bathroom to shower, hating the site of my hard-on pushing out along my hip like Pinoccio's fucking nose popping up to say hi. Turning the water to scalding, I will my erection down and wash up fast, wanting to get back under the warmth of my quilt.

I check my phone before closing my eyes for the night and see two unread text messages. One is from Carlisle, the standard Be home by 6, sleep well. And the other is from Jasper. I gulp down the nerves swelling up in my throat as I brush my thumb over the message to see it larger.

The words on the tiny screen mock me.

No beach tomorrow. Huge storm coming in off the coast.

Feeling like I'm missing something, I text him back, disregarding the hour, thinking mindless drivel the entire time I type...I just jerked off to an image of your face and I want to run screaming from the sight of you and yet I can't, so please just tell me where the fuck you live so I can come pick you up like the pathetic ass hole I am...

I'll still drive you. Where's your house?

His response is instant.

5 streets down from the pier. Wayfarer Lane. Look for Tibetan prayer flags.

I smile in the dim light of my room and then my stomach drops and embarrassment hits. I put the phone on my night stand and curl into a fetal position beneath the covers, wishing my mother were alive because sometimes I just really need a fucking hug.

I don't care if I'm 18 and fully grown and shit; this is so one of those times.

A thunder clap wakes me up not two hours later and I roll over, my cock achingly hard again. I groan and try to ignore it, but the splattering of rain on the windows mixed with the lightning from the storm is making it impossible to sleep. So, instead, I stare at my ceiling and think.

Thinking is bad. Thinking leads to obsessive, analytical breakdowns of every detail I've ever bothered to notice. Every nuance I can remember, I catalog into an endless and tiring stream of imagined labels and notes, which normally leads to a headache.

And right now, my headache is revolving around Jasper.

Jasper with his faded black hair and secret smiles that he seems to show only to me. Jasper with that stupid wife-beater and his cowboy boots...his tackle box and fucking special cookies.

Lightning flashes through the room and I hear a beep signalling a new text message.

You still awake?

I smile at the phone, hating myself a little. Yes.

Wanna meet somewhere?

Caught off guard by his question, I check the clock on the nightstand. 3:30 a.m.


My house.

I stare at the little print, confused at my own jumbled feelings. This seems profound in a way, even though that word is too big to be caused by such a small font. Still, I text back.

Isn't your mom sleeping?

She's not here.

That makes me grin; Carlisle is gone too.

Okay, give me twenty.

Faster than I'd likely admit, I shove back the covers and pull on the first pair of jeans I see on my floor. My hair is a mess when I check the mirror in the bathroom as I brush my teeth but I ignore it. No time to fix it anyway.

Throwing on a sweatshirt and a pair of boots by the door, I'm in my car in less than ten minutes and heading on down towards the ocean. The thunder is so loud and strong it's pumping a bass beat through my bones and the lightning is sparking forks through the sky as I count down the five streets from the pier like Jasper said in his text.

When I see Wayfarer, I make a sharp turn and squint through the rain splattered windows for the prayer flags, which I'm now realizing I have no idea what they are. Something catches my attention though, a silhouette of a man on a porch and I slow to a crawl in the street.

Is it crazy that I can recognize Jasper's silhouette?

That sudden realization makes me angry. More angry than I can readily comprehend in that moment and I pull over to the curb and slam the car into park. My breathing is heavy and I'm fogging the windows, but despite the rain and my self-induced fog, I can still see the outline of Jasper on his porch, waiting.

His arms are folded, like he knows.

Does he know? Is that why he wanted me to meet him?

I shake my head, trying to jar some reason back into it. He can't know. There is no way he'd know what I just did not four hours ago in my room. I mean, guys jerk off. It's part of life. It's healthy. When I was twelve, Carlisle sat me down and handed me a pamphlet on masturbation and a bottle of lube, wanting me to be prepared if the urge ever struck.

See? Normal.

So why am I panting like I've just run a mile at full speed, and gripping to the steering wheel so tight it's creaking beneath my fingers?

I punch the wheel with my palm and look out the window. He's still there. Arms still folded, back lit by the light of the the front room.

I hate him. He's done this to me. Fucked me up. Messed with my head. It's because of him that I cried into my pillow wishing for my fucking Mommy. He's stripped me of every barrier and left me bare to the world.

I hate him.

Shoving open the car door, I slam it shut behind me and stalk across the street in the downpour, uncaring about the rain. My fists are balled and my teeth are clenched—I'm so strained I feel ready to snap.

Walking up the steps to Jasper is like a death march. I can see his face now, and it's impassive, unreadable, like so many other times I've seen him and wanted to know so desperately what he was thinking. He never lets anything slip, he's just too closed off. How the fuck does he do it?


I can't bring myself to take another step. I stand one level down on the steps, exposed to the rain and the thunder outside of the porch overhang, furious and losing my shit faster than I can control.

To make things worse, Jasper is moving towards me, his arms now at his sides and his face guarded. He looks...apprehensive.

"What's wrong?"

I laugh out, harsh and short, almost like a cough of pure bitterness. He has no idea how much he's fucked me over by just being him. He'll know soon enough.

"I can't help you, Edward, unless you tell me."

This time, my laugh is longer, more consuming. I have to bend over to hold my sides from the pain in my ribs from pushing out so much air.

"Help me?" I spit out. His condescension is not amusing. "Help me! You're the one who's fucked me. Why would I want you to help me?"

I turn to walk back down the steps, warring with myself over lashing out at my only friend and wanting to purge this hatred from my body. It's eating at me and I want it gone. When I feel Jasper's hand try to clutch around my upper arm, I snap.

"Don't touch me!" I feel too much when you do.

I push him backwards up the steps, shoving him until he hits the wood of his front door. The knocker bounces on it's perch and I have an urge to punch that too. Fucking knocker.

Jasper's eyes are wide and his hair is everywhere, the rain having dampened a few strands around his face. I hate that it's covering up any part of him and push it back with rough hands. Jasper's expression changes to one of confusion and I want to spit. I can't control myself when I'm around him. I punch the door beside his head and then wrench my hand back in pain.


I crumple to the floor of the porch and hold my hand to my chest, despising life. Jasper knows enough at this point to not touch me, so I'm free to have my own little breakdown without his input. Streaks of salty tears slide down my face and I taste them on my lips as I pull my knees to my chest and hide in my arms.

Everything is too much. The sound of the rain, the pain in my hand, that sensation of heat pressing against my spine because I know Jasper's watching me: it's all too much.

The sounds of the storm erupt around me as I cry like a fucking two year-old on Jasper Whitlock's porch in the middle of it all. If I didn't hate myself enough earlier for jerking off to an image of my best friend's face, I sure as hell do now.

"What the fuck are prayer flags anyway?" I snap out a minute later, needing the silence to end.


"Prayer flags!" I yell over my shoulder.

Jasper waits a beat then points to the pieces of colored cloth flapping in the wet wind hanging from the rafters. "Those."


More silence. I hate it. A few minutes later, I snap again.

"You're not Tibetan."

God, I'm pathetic.

"My ma studied Buddhism."

This conversation is stupid, so I just stop talking. The rain has lightened slightly as I look out past the porch, and I'm really fucking happy to notice that the thunder has moved on. That shit was giving me a massive headache.

I feel Jasper sit down next to me and I try not to visibly tense at his close presence. I owe him an apology, I know, but I can't bring myself to calm down to that point just yet.

Instead, Jasper asks me several inane questions in a row, confusing me and making me look at him sideways. He just shrugs so I try to answer the best I can, realizing a moment too late that he's trying to take my mind off my troubles.

I stand and walk over to the railing, he's too...too close when we sit next to each other.

Rubbing my hands over my face, I'm just about ready to apologize when he drops a bomb on me.

"It's okay, you know? Being the way you are."

I look up, shocked and confused.

"What way am I?" I ask, slow and curious, feeling my anger spike up again.

"I shouldn't be the one to say it."

Betrayal twists in my gut, and I attack. "Jesus, will you get off your fucking pedestal already? What the fuck do you mean?"

"You know the answer."

"Cut the cryptic bullshit, Jas. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, I do."

I kick back on the railing, hearing the wood creak in protest and step forward. "Fuck off. You don't know me. You don't know what I'm feeling or how much it fucking hurts!"

"What hurts?" He shouts back, stepping closer. "To be abandoned? Lonely? The outcast? The freak? You're petrified of becoming a social leper? Guess what, jack ass, I already am one. Have been since I was fucking seven. So don't tell me I don't understand."

"I don't give a shit about what people think, you know that!"

"Then why are you so terrified of me saying it?"

"Fuck you!"

"Do you think that helps? Fighting it?"

"Fighting what!"

"This!" Jasper grabs me by the fabric of my shirt and pulls me so close to his face I can feel his breath puff across my skin. It's hot and minty and I close my eyes from the sensation, scared and retreating and something else I can't stand to comprehend.

For seconds on end, nothing happens. I just hang there, eyes closed and limp in his arms as he holds me unbearably close, scrunched up by my wet shirt. His body is pressed to mine and I can feel every flat plane of muscle, every pulsing vein bursting beneath his skin. He's seething, and right there. So close, and yet nowhere near close enough.

I exhale a breath and it comes out a whimper. I kick myself for sounding so weak and feel tears sting at the corners of my eyes. Again. Fuck! I hate this. So damn much.

"Fuck you," I force out, my voice breaking. "Fuck you, Jasper."

"Stop fighting it. You're gonna kill yourself trying."

My hands come up and grab at what should be his shirt sleeves, but all I feel is taut skin because he's wearing that damn racerback tank again. I cling to the muscles of his arms, my fingers digging into the skin and pull myself closer to him.

I hate how he makes me feel. I hate how much I feel when I'm around him, and how much it hurts when I'm not. I want to punch him bloody and hold him all at the same time, and I can't bear to choose one or the other because I can't breathe with the strain of deciding. Instead, I bury my face into the hot skin of his neck and wrap myself around him so damn tight I can't even pull air into my lungs when the burn for oxygen sears through my lungs.

I scratch at his back and hit his shoulder blades with a closed fist each time a new wave of emotion hits me but he doesn't do anything in retaliation—he just holds me. His arms are strong weights around my back and his chin is curled around my shoulder, fitting to me like a puzzle piece. I hate how perfect it feels. His fucking dyed black hair is soft against my face and smells like coconuts and weed, and I nuzzle even closer, 'cause for some reason that is the most soothing smell right now.

"Fuck you," I repeat, over and over. Hating it each time I say it, because each time it comes out more and more weak, less of a threat and more of a plea. I don't mean it. At all. I don't hate him either. What I feel is so much the opposite of hate I want to scream.

He holds me closer, his arms tightening, his body molding to mine so completely I have to hold back a sob at the feel of it. This is so wrong. So wrong.

So why am I hoping that he doesn't stop? Why do I want him to never let go? I feel like shit, I can't breathe and my eyes are stinging from the unshed tears, and yet I've never wanted to be someplace more than on this damn porch with him.

"Wanna go have a cookie at the pier?" He asks a few minutes later, and I smile despite myself. My anger has disappeared, somehow absorbed into the man holding me, and his simple question breaks the tension that'd been threatening to strangle me so easily, I wonder to myself how he does it.

I nod into his shoulder but I don't let go, and he lets me hold him. He lets me do whatever I want because he knows himself and he doesn't give a shit about the world around him. He's fucking brave. He's everything I'm not.

I'm not ready to let go, but I do. I step back and disentangle myself from him and hide my face, ashamed. Jasper goes inside for a moment, picking something up off the floor and walking back out: it's his tackle box. He takes my hand and drags me down the porch steps and I fight the urge to snap it back from his grasp because I don't want to stop touching him. He grounds me, and I'm too tired to care about what it all means. I just like the feel of his warm, strong palm clutching mine.

We walk the five streets to the pier, but I take back my hand a block or two past his house, feeling too awkward and uneasy to keep holding onto him. He doesn't say anything, but I see a small smile at his lips when I chance it and look his way.

"I'm sorry."

He stops and regards me with a raised eyebrow.

"I was an asshole back there," I explain.

"I understand."

I close my eyes and hold back. "You're too understanding Jasper."

He shrugs. "Let's just get to the pier. I need a cookie."

Two hours—and too many cookies to count—later we're driving at five miles an hour down the road in my Jeep, laughing like idiots. We decide that driving too fast in our stoned-ass state won't be safe for the community of garden gnomes around us. Naturally, this leads to a cruising speed utilizing only one horse power.

That makes me grin. "Horse power," I repeat out loud.

"House power." Jasper adds.

"Mouse power."

"Pouse power!"


I look over at Jasper and he loses it, doubling over in his seat. I push on the break and lean on the steering wheel. Pouse is the funniest fucking word ever.

When we finally get to my house, the sky is lightening over the rooftops and the large puddles left from last night's rain are disappearing into the sewers, as if it never happened.

For some reason that makes me incredibly sad, but then I giggle cause being sad is bad. Mad. Lad. Had. Fad...

More giggles.

We climb out of the car and attempt to walk up the porch steps, but something makes Jasper laugh which then makes me laugh, and we're so fucked. I make a valiant effort for the door and right before I grab the knob it occurs to me that we should be quiet. Carlisle could be home.

"Shhhh," I say, putting my finger to my lips and leaning in close to Jasper. My giggles stop abruptly when I realize that our foreheads are touching, and our lips are so close I can feel his breath against my finger. Suddenly, my finger becomes the last stronghold in my body to keep me from giving into whatever it is Jasper's been doing to me.

And I want to give in. So badly.

With questioning eyes, I slowly lower my hand from my mouth, leaving nothing but an inch of space between us. Jasper's hands are already on me—having used me for support—and my other arm is slung over his shoulder. I hadn't noticed how intertwined we were, but now that I do, I can see that we have been for a while. In more ways than one.

For some insane reason, I close the distant between our lips and when I do, I hear Jasper groan with something that sounds like desperation.

Suddenly, strong arms are around me and shaking hands are pushing into my hair and down my back. I'm molded to Jasper within seconds, and I'm shocked out of my mind. His tongue is pushing against my lips, and when I feel his knee press between my legs I gasp and he dives in, hot tongue and warm flesh fighting with my own. He's chocolate and herb and delicious, and I pull him closer, moaning with the effort of wanting him so damn much.

His hair is soft and his skin is warm, and there's a rasp of stubble along his chin that feels fucking amazing against my own. His hips move into mine and I jump slightly but Jasper has me so tight, I can't get very far. He doesn't stop kissing me as he pushes me into the front door, his hips giving an upward thrust as he does. I throw my head back and grunt at the sensation. He's so hard, and rubbing against my cock and the combination is incredible.

This is too much, too fast, and I want to tell him stop, pause, wait...but all I'm doing is pulling his hair and dragging his mouth back to mine.

All of a sudden, I'm flying backwards into my house, Jasper falling with me as someone wrenches open the door. We stumble to the floor in a heap, Jasper on top of me and I scramble to see my father standing over me with a dazed expression.

"I heard noises," he says, scratching his head in a very un-Carlisle like fashion.

"Jasper?" A female voice calls, and I redden even further when I see Esme step into my line of sight.

I don't even have time to think awkward before my father is snorting into his palm and Esme is holding back her own giggles behind him. She puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder and he turns to her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

"Ho shit..." Jasper says on top of me, and I mirror his thought.

"Are you two...?" Stoned...Together...Sampling from Jasper's stash?

They just laugh.

Jasper drops his head to my shoulder in defeat and I stare amazed up at our parents. They're stoned...on a school night.

That thought is entirely too amusing and I have to hold back a snort, since Jasper's hair is all over my face. I want to wrap my arms around him, but I still feel awkward on the floor with our parents above us. He takes the decision out of my hands a moment later when he curls himself around me like a damn cat. I give in and thread my fingers into his soft hair, moving it away from tickling my nose.

The giggling stops from above us and we look up simultaneously to see the shocked faces of Carlisle and Esme. I catch a slight smile on Esme's face before I feel the weight of Jasper leave me.

He jumps up to his feet and grabs my hand.

"I'm very disappointed in you two," he says with mock authority. "We're going to give you some time alone to think about what you've done."

And with that, he drags me up the stairs, away from the adults in the front hall. I take over at the second floor, leading him to my room.

"I can't believe that," I tell him as we get to my door. He opens it.

"I know."

"Did you know?" I ask. We walk inside.



"Edward," Jasper says, gaining my attention. I stare at him. "I don't care. I just want to kiss you."

And he does. Until my alarm goes off five minutes later and we slump to the floor in a heap.

Time to get ready for school.








A/N: Thank you for reading, and a very big thank you to YogaGal and AngstGoddes003 for hosting this high-larious contest. I can't wait to read the rest of the entries.